The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About
the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas
for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.

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CHAPTER I

A STRONG APPEAL

It was evening of early summer. George Lansing
sat by a window of the library at Brantholme.
The house belonged to his cousin; and George, having
lately reached it after traveling in haste from Norway,
awaited the coming of Mrs. Sylvia Marston in an eagerly
expectant mood. It was characteristic of him
that his expression conveyed little hint of his feelings,
for George was a quiet, self-contained man; but he
had not been so troubled by confused emotions since
Sylvia married Marston three years earlier.
Marston had taken her to Canada; but now he was dead,
and Sylvia, returning to England, had summoned George,
who had been appointed executor of her husband’s
will.

Outside, beyond the broad sweep of lawn, the quiet
English countryside lay bathed in the evening light:
a river gleaming in the foreground, woods clothed
in freshest verdure, and rugged hills running back
through gradations of softening color into the distance.
Inside, a ray of sunlight stretched across the polished
floor, and gleams of brightness rested on the rows
of books and somber paneling. Brantholme was
old, but modern art had added comfort and toned down
its austerity; and George, fresh from the northern
snow peaks, was conscious of its restful atmosphere.

In the meanwhile, he was listening for a footstep.
Sylvia, he had been told, would be with him in two
or three minutes; he had already been expecting her
for a quarter of an hour. This, however, did
not surprise him: Sylvia was rarely punctual,
and until she married Marston, he had been accustomed
to await her pleasure.

Page 2

She came at length, clad in a thin black dress that
fitted her perfectly; and he rose and stood looking
at her while his heart beat fast. Sylvia was
slight of figure, but curiously graceful, and her
normal expression was one of innocent candor.
The somber garments emphasized the colorless purity
of her complexion; her hair was fair, and she had
large, pathetic blue eyes. Her beauty was somehow
heightened by a hint of fragility: in her widow’s
dress she looked very forlorn and helpless; and the
man yearned to comfort and protect her. It did
not strike him that she had stood for some moments
enduring his compassionate scrutiny with exemplary
patience.

“It’s so nice to see you, George,”
she said. “I knew you would come.”

He thrilled at the assurance; but he was not an effusive
person. He brought a chair for her.

“I started as soon as I got your note,”
he answered simply. “I’m glad you’re
back again.”

He did not think it worth while to mention that he
had with difficulty crossed a snow-barred pass in
order to save time, and had left a companion, who
resented his desertion, in the wilds; but Sylvia guessed
that he had spared no effort, and she answered him
with a smile.

“Your welcome’s worth having, because
it’s sincere.”

Those who understood Sylvia best occasionally said
that when she was unusually gracious it was a sign
that she wanted something; but George would have denied
this with indignation.

“If it wouldn’t be too painful, you might
tell me a little about your stay in Canada,”
he said by and by. “You never wrote, and”—­he
hesitated—­“I heard only once from
Dick.”

Dick was her dead husband’s name, and she sat
silent a few moments musing, and glancing unobtrusively
at George. He had not changed much since she
last saw him, on her wedding-day, though he looked
a little older, and rather more serious. There
were faint signs of weariness which she did not remember
in his sunburned face. On the whole, however,
it was a reposeful face, with something in it that
suggested a steadfast disposition. His gray
eyes met one calmly and directly; his brown hair was
short and stiff; the set of his lips and the contour
of his jaw were firm. George had entered on
his thirtieth year. Though he was strongly made,
his appearance was in no way striking, and it was
seldom that his conversation was characterized by brilliancy.
But his friends trusted him.

“It’s difficult to speak of,” Sylvia
began. “When, soon after our wedding,
Dick lost most of his money, and said that we must
go to Canada, I felt almost crushed; but I thought
he was right.” She paused and glanced
at George. “He told me what you wished
to do, and I’m glad that, generous as you are,
he wouldn’t hear of it.”

George looked embarrassed.

“I felt his refusal a little,” he said.
“I could have spared the money, and I was a
friend of his.”

Page 3

He had proved a staunch friend, though he had been
hardly tried. For several years he had been
Sylvia’s devoted servant, and an admirer of
the more accomplished Marston. When the girl
chose the latter it was a cruel blow to George, for
he had never regarded his comrade as a possible rival;
but after a few weeks of passionate bitterness, he
had quietly acquiesced. He had endeavored to
blame neither; though there were some who did not
hold Sylvia guiltless. George was, as she well
knew, her faithful servant still; and this was largely
why she meant to tell him her tragic story.

“Well,” she said, “when I first
went out to the prairie, I was almost appalled.
Everything was so crude and barbarous—­but
you know the country.”

George merely nodded. He had spent a few years
in a wheat-growing settlement, inhabited by well-bred
young Englishmen. The colony, however, was not
conducted on economic lines; and when it came to grief,
George, having come into some property on the death
of a relative, returned to England.

“Still,” continued Sylvia, “I tried
to be content, and blamed myself when I found it difficult.
There was always so much to do—­cooking,
washing, baking—­one could seldom get any
help. I often felt worn out and longed to lie
down and sleep.”

“I can understand that,” said George,
with grave sympathy. “It’s a very
hard country for a woman.”

He was troubled by the thought of what she must have
borne for it was difficult to imagine Sylvia engaged
in laborious domestic toil. It had never occurred
to him that her delicate appearance was deceptive.

“Dick,” she went on, “was out at
work all day; there was nobody to talk to—­our
nearest neighbor lived some miles off. I think
now that Dick was hardly strong enough for his task.
He got restless and moody after he lost his first
crop by frost. During that long, cruel winter
we were both unhappy: I never think without a
shudder of the bitter nights we spent sitting beside
the stove, silent and anxious about the future.
But we persevered; the next harvest was good, and we
were brighter when winter set in. I shall always
be glad of that in view of what came after.”
She paused, and added in a lower voice:

“You heard, of course?”

“Very little; I was away. It was a heavy
blow.”

“I couldn’t write much,” explained
Sylvia. “Even now, I can hardly talk of
it—­but you were a dear friend of Dick’s.
We had to burn wood; the nearest bluff where it could
be cut was several miles away; and Dick didn’t
keep a hired man through the winter. It was often
very cold, and I got frightened when he drove off
if there was any wind. It was trying to wait
in the quiet house, wondering if he could stand the
exposure. Then one day something kept him so
that he couldn’t start for the bluff until noon;
and near dusk the wind got up and the snow began to
fall. It got thicker, and I could not sit still.
I went out now and then and called, and was driven
back, almost frozen, by the storm. I could scarcely
see the lights a few yards away; the house shook.
The memory of that awful night will haunt me all my
life!”

Page 4

She broke off with a shiver, and George looked very
compassionate.

“I think,” he said gently, “you
had better not go on.” “Ah!”
replied Sylvia, “I must grapple with the horror
and not yield to it; with the future to be faced,
I can’t be a coward. At last I heard the
team and opened the door. The snow was blinding,
but I could dimly see the horses standing in it.
I called, but Dick didn’t answer, and I ran
out and found him lying upon the load of logs.
He was very still, and made no sign, but I reached
up and shook him—­I couldn’t believe
the dreadful thing. I think I screamed; the
team started suddenly, and Dick fell at my feet.
Then the truth was clear to me.”

A half-choked sob broke from her, but she went on.

“I couldn’t move him; I must have gone
nearly mad, for I tried to run to Peterson’s,
three miles away. The snow blinded me, and I
came back again; and by and by another team arrived.
Peterson had got lost driving home from the settlement.
After that, I can’t remember anything; I’m
thankful it is so—­I couldn’t bear
it!”

Then there was silence for a few moments until George
rose and gently laid his hand on her shoulder.

“My sympathy’s not worth much, Sylvia,
but it’s yours,” he said. “Can
I help in any practical way?”

Growing calmer, she glanced up at him with tearful
eyes.

“I can’t tell you just yet; but it’s
a comfort to have your sympathy. Don’t
speak to me for a little while, please.”

He went back to his place and watched her with a yearning
heart, longing for the power to soothe her.
She looked so forlorn and desolate, too frail to bear
her load of sorrow.

“I must try to be brave,” she smiled up
at him at length. “And you are my trustee.
Please bring those papers I laid down. I suppose
I must talk to you about the farm.”

It did not strike George that this was a rather sudden
change, or that there was anything incongruous in
Sylvia’s considering her material interests
in the midst of her grief. After examining the
documents, he asked her a few questions, to which
she gave explicit answers.

“Now you should be able to decide what must
be done,” she said finally; “and I’m
anxious about it. I suppose that’s natural.”

“You have plenty of friends,” George reminded
her consolingly.

Sylvia rose, and there was bitterness in her expression.

“Friends? Oh, yes; but I’ve come
back to them a widow, badly provided for—­that’s
why I spent some months in Montreal before I could
nerve myself to face them.” Then her voice
softened as she fixed her eyes on him. “It’s
fortunate there are one or two I can rely on.”

Sylvia left him with two clear impressions: her
helplessness, and the fact that she trusted him.
While he sat turning over the papers, his cousin
and co-trustee came in. Herbert Lansing was a
middle-aged business man, and he was inclined to portliness.
His clean-shaven and rather fleshy face usually wore
a good-humored expression; his manners were easy and,
as a rule, genial.

Page 5

“We must have a talk,” he began, indicating
the documents in George’s hand. “I
suppose you have grasped the position, even if Sylvia
hasn’t explained it. She shows an excellent
knowledge of details.”

There was a hint of dryness in his tone that escaped
George’s notice.

“So far as I can make out,” he answered,
“Dick owned a section of a second-class wheat-land,
with a mortgage on the last quarter, some way back
from a railroad. The part under cultivation gives
a poor crop.”

“What would you value the property at?”

George made a rough calculation.

“I expected something of the kind,” Herbert
told him. “It’s all Sylvia has to
live upon, and the interest would hardly cover her
dressmaker’s bills.” He looked directly
at his cousin. “Of course, it’s possible
that she will marry again.”

“She must never be forced to contemplate it
by any dread of poverty,” George said shortly.

“How is it to be prevented?”

George merely looked thoughtful and a little stern.
Getting no answer, Herbert went on:

“So far as I can see, we have only two courses
to choose between. The first is to sell out
as soon as we can find a buyer, with unfortunate results
if your valuation’s right; but the second looks
more promising. With immigrants pouring into
the country, land’s bound to go up, and we ought
to get a largely increased price by holding on a while.
To do that, I understand, the land should be worked.”

“Yes. It could, no doubt, be improved;
which would materially add to its value.”

“I see one difficulty: the cost of superintendence
might eat up most of the profit. Wages are high
on the prairie, are they not?”

George assented, and Herbert continued:

“Then a good deal would depend on the man in
charge. Apart from the question of his honesty,
he would have to take a thorough interest in the farm.”

“He would have to think of nothing else, and
be willing to work from sunrise until dark,”
said George. “Successful farming means
determined effort in western Canada.”

“Could you put your hands upon a suitable person?”

“I’m very doubtful. You don’t
often meet with a man of the kind we need in search
of an engagement at a strictly moderate salary.”

“Then it looks as if we must sell out now for
enough to provide Sylvia with a pittance.”

“That,” George said firmly, “is
not to be thought of!”

There was a short silence while he pondered, for his
legacy had not proved an unmixed blessing. At
first he had found idleness irksome, but by degrees
he had grown accustomed to it. Though he was
still troubled now and then by an idea that he was
wasting his time and making a poor use of such abilities
as he possessed, it was pleasant to feel that, within
certain limits, he could do exactly as he wished.
Life in western Canada was strenuous and somewhat primitive;
he was conscious of a strong reluctance to resume
it; but he could not bear to have Sylvia, who had
luxurious tastes, left almost penniless. There
was a way in which he could serve her, and he determined
to take it. George was steadfast in his devotion,
and did not shrink from a sacrifice.

Page 6

“It strikes me there’s only one suitable
plan,” he said. “I know something
about western farming. I wouldn’t need
a salary; and Sylvia could trust me to look after
her interests. I’d better go out and take
charge until things are straightened up, or we come
across somebody fit for the post.”

Herbert heard him with satisfaction. He had
desired to lead George up to this decision, and he
suspected that Sylvia had made similar efforts.
It was not difficult to instil an idea into his cousin’s
mind.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “the
suggestion seems a good one; though it’s rather
hard on you, if you really mean to go.”

“That’s decided,” was the brief
answer.

“Then, though we can discuss details later,
you had better give me legal authority to look after
your affairs while you are away. There are those
Kaffir shares, for instance; it might be well to part
with them if, they go up a point or two.”

“I’ve wondered why you recommended me
to buy them,” George said bluntly.

Herbert avoided a direct answer. He now and
then advised George, who knew little about business,
in the management of his property, but his advice
was not always disinterested or intended only for his
cousin’s benefit.

“Oh,” he replied, “the cleverest
operators now and then make mistakes, and I don’t
claim exceptional powers of precision. It’s
remarkably difficult to forecast the tendency of the
stock-market.”

George nodded, as if satisfied.

“I’ll arrange things before I sail, and
I’d better get off as soon as possible.
Now, suppose we go down and join the others.”

CHAPTER II

HIS FRIENDS’ OPINION

On the afternoon following his arrival, George stood
thoughtfully looking about on his cousin’s lawn.
Creepers flecked the mellow brick front of the old
house with sprays of tender leaves; purple clematis
hung from a trellis; and lichens tinted the low terrace
wall with subdued coloring. The grass was flanked
by tall beeches, rising in masses of bright verdure
against a sky of clearest blue; and beyond it, across
the sparkling river, smooth meadows ran back to the
foot of the hills. It was, in spite of the bright
sunshine, all so fresh and cool: a picture that
could be enjoyed only in rural England.

George was sensible of the appeal it made to him;
now, when he must shortly change such scenes for the
wide levels of western Canada, which are covered during
most of the year with harsh, gray grass, alternately
withered by frost and sun, he felt their charm.
It was one thing to run across to Norway on a fishing
or mountaineering trip and come back when he wished,
but quite another to settle down on the prairie where
he must remain until his work should be done.
Moreover, for Mrs. Lansing had many friends, the
figures scattered about the lawn—­young
men and women in light summer attire—­enhanced
the attractiveness of the surroundings. They
were nice people, with pleasant English ways; and
George contrasted them with the rather grim, aggressive
plainsmen among whom he would presently have to live:
men who toiled in the heat, half naked, and who would
sit down to meals with him in dusty, unwashed clothes.
He was not a sybarite, but he preferred the society
of Mrs. Lansing’s guests.

Page 7

After a while she beckoned him, and they leaned upon
the terrace wall side by side. She was a good-natured,
simple woman, with strongly domestic habits and conventional
views.

“I’m glad Herbert has got away from business
for a few days,” she began. “He
works too hard, and it’s telling on him.
How do you think he is looking?”

George knew she was addicted to displaying a needless
anxiety about her husband’s health. It
had struck him that Herbert was getting stouter; but
he now remembered having noticed a hint of care in
his face.

“The rest will do him good,” he said.

Mrs. Lansing’s conversation was often disconnected,
and she now changed the subject.

“Herbert tells me you are going to Canada.
As you’re fond of the open air, you will enjoy
it.”

“I suppose so,” George assented rather
dubiously.

“Of course, it’s very generous, and Sylvia’s
fortunate in having you to look after things”—­Mrs.
Lansing paused before adding—­“but
are you altogether wise in going, George?”

Lansing knew that his hostess loved romance, and sometimes
attempted to assist in one, but he would have preferred
another topic.

“I don’t see what else I could do,”
he said.

“That’s hardly an answer. You will
forgive me for speaking plainly, but what I meant
was this—­your devotion to Sylvia is not
a secret.”

George’s brown face colored deeply. He
was angry, but Mrs. Lansing was not to be deterred.

“Take a hint and stay at home,” she went
on. “It might pay you better.”

“And let Sylvia’s property be sacrificed?”

“Yes, if necessary.” She looked
at him directly. “You have means enough.”

He struggled with his indignation. Sylvia hated
poverty, and it had been suggested that he should
turn the fact to his advantage. The idea that
she might be more willing to marry him if she were
poor was most unpleasant.

“Sylvia’s favor is not to be bought,”
he said.

Mrs. Lansing’s smile was half impatient.

“Oh, well, if you’re bent on going, there’s
nothing to be said. Sylvia, of course, will stay
with us.”

The arrangement was a natural one, as Sylvia was a
relative of hers; but George failed to notice that
her expression grew thoughtful as she glanced toward
where Sylvia was sitting with a man upon whom the
soldier stamp was plainly set. George followed
her gaze and frowned, but he said nothing, and his
companion presently moved away. Soon afterward
he crossed the lawn and joined a girl who waited for
him. Ethel West was tall and strongly made.
She was characterized by a keen intelligence and
bluntness of speech. Being an old friend of George’s,
she occasionally assumed the privilege of one.

Page 8

“I hear you are going to Canada. What
is taking you there again?” she asked.

“I am going to look after some farming property,
for one thing.”

Ethel regarded him with amusement.

“Sylvia Marston’s, I suppose?”

“Yes,” George answered rather shortly.

“Then what’s the other purpose you have
in view?”

George hesitated.

“I’m not sure I have another motive.”

“So I imagined. You’re rather an
exceptional man—­in some respects.”

“If that’s true, I wasn’t aware
of it,” George retorted.

Ethel laughed.

“It’s hardly worth while to prove my statement;
we’ll talk of something else. Has Herbert
told you anything about his business since you came
back? I suppose you have noticed signs of increased
prosperity?”

“I’m afraid I’m not observant, and
Herbert isn’t communicative.”

“Perhaps he’s wise. Still, the fact
that he’s putting up a big new orchard-house
has some significance. I understand from Stephen
that he’s been speculating largely in rubber
shares. It’s a risky game.”

“I suppose it is,” George agreed.
“But it’s most unlikely that Herbert
will come to grief. He has a very long head;
I believe he could, for example, buy and sell me.”

“That wouldn’t be very difficult.
I suspect Herbert isn’t the only one of your
acquaintances who is capable of doing as much.”

Her eyes followed Sylvia, who was then walking across
the grass. Sylvia’s movements were always
graceful, and she had now a subdued, pensive air that
rendered her appearance slightly pathetic. Ethel’s
face, however, grew quietly scornful. She knew
what Sylvia’s forlorn and helpless look was
worth.

“I’m not afraid that anybody will try,”
George replied.

“Your confidence is admirable.” laughed
Ethel; “but I mustn’t appear too cynical,
and I’ve a favor to ask. Will you take
Edgar out with you?”

George felt a little surprised. Edgar was her
brother, a lad of somewhat erratic habits and ideas,
who had been at Oxford when George last heard of him.

“Yes, if he wants to go, and Stephen approves,”
he said; for Stephen, the lawyer, was an elder brother,
and the Wests had lost their parents.

“He will be relieved to get him off his hands
for a while; but Edgar will be over to see you during
the afternoon. He’s spending a week or
two with the Charltons.”

“I remember that young Charlton and he were
close acquaintances.”

“That was the excuse for the visit; but you
had better understand that there was a certain amount
of friction when Edgar came home after some trouble
with the authorities. In his opinion, Stephen
is too fond of making mountains out of molehills;
but I must own that Edgar’s molehills have a
way of increasing in size, and the last one caused
us a good deal of uneasiness. Anyway, we have
decided that a year’s hard work in Canada might
help to steady him, even if he doesn’t follow
up farming. The main point is that he would
be safe with you.”

Page 9

“I’ll have a talk with him,” George
promised; and after a word of thanks Ethel turned
away.

A little later she joined Mrs. Lansing, who was sitting
alone in the shadow of a beech.

“I’m afraid I’ve added to George’s
responsibilities—­he has agreed to take
Edgar out,” she said. “He has some
reason for wishing to be delivered from his friends,
though I don’t suppose he does so.”

“I’ve felt the same thing. Of course,
I’m not referring to Edgar—­his last
scrape was only a trifling matter.”

“Sylvia stands apart,” Mrs. Lansing declared.
“She can do what nobody else would venture
on, and yet you feel you must excuse her.”

“Have you any particular exploit of hers in
your mind?”

“I was thinking of when she accepted Dick Marston.
I believe even Dick was astonished.”

“Sylvia knows how to make herself irresistible,”
said Ethel, strolling away a few moments later, somewhat
troubled in mind.

She had cherished a half-tender regard for George,
which, had it been reciprocated, might have changed
to a deeper feeling. The man was steadfast,
chivalrous, honest, and she saw in him latent capabilities
which few others suspected. Still, his devotion
to Sylvia had never been concealed, and Ethel had
acquiesced in the situation, though she retained a
strong interest in him. She believed that in
going to Canada he was doing an injudicious thing;
but as his confidence was hard to shake, he could
not be warned—­her conversation with him
had made that plainer. She would not regret
it if Sylvia forgot him while he was absent; but there
were other ways in which he might suffer, and she
wished he had not chosen to place the management of
his affairs in Herbert’s hands.

In the meanwhile, her brother had arrived, and he
and George were sitting together on the opposite side
of the lawn. Edgar was a handsome, dark-haired
lad, with a mischievous expression, and he sometimes
owned that his capacity for seeing the humorous side
of things was a gift that threatened to be his ruin.
Nevertheless, there was a vein of sound common sense
in him, and he had a strong admiration for George
Lansing.

“Why do you want to go with me?” the latter
asked, pretending to be a bit stern, but liking the
youngster all the while.

“That,” Edgar laughed, “is a rather
euphemistic way of putting it. My washes have
not been consulted. I must give my relatives
the credit for the idea. Still, one must admit
they had some provocation.”

“It strikes me they have had a good deal of
patience,” George said dryly. “I
suppose it’s exhausted.”

“No,” replied Edgar, with a confidential
air; “it’s mine that has given out.
I’d better explain that being stuffed with what
somebody calls formulae gets monotonous, and it’s
a diet they’re rather fond of at Oxford.
Down here in the country they’re almost as bad;
and pretending to admire things I don’t believe
in positively hurts. That’s why I sometimes
protest, with, as a rule, disastrous results.”

Page 10

“Disastrous to the objectionable ideas or customs?”

“No,” laughed the lad; “to me.
Have you ever noticed how vindictive narrow-minded
people get when you destroy their pet delusions?”

“I can’t remember ever having done so."’

“Then you’ll come to it. If you’re
honest it’s unavoidable; only some people claim
that they make the attack from duty, while I find a
positive pleasure in the thing.”

“There’s one consolation—­you
won’t have much time for such proceedings if
you come with me. You’ll have to work in
Canada.”

“I anticipated something of the sort,”
the lad rejoined. Then he grew serious.
“Have you decided who’s to look after
your affairs while you are away? If you haven’t,
you might do worse than leave them to Stephen.
He’s steady and safe as a rock, and, after all,
the three per cent. you’re sure of is better
than a handsome dividend you may never get.”

“I can’t give Herbert the go-by.
He’s the obvious person to do whatever may
be needful.”

“I suppose so,” Edgar assented, with some
reluctance. “No doubt he’d feel
hurt if you asked anybody else; but I wish you could
have got Stephen.”

He changed the subject; and when some of the others
came up and joined them, he resumed his humorous manner.

“I’m not asking for sympathy,” he
said, in answer to one remark. “I’m
going out to extend the bounds of the empire, strengthen
the ties with the mother country, and that sort of
thing. It’s one of the privileges that
seem to be attached to the possession of a temperament
like mine.”

“How will you set about the work?” somebody
asked.

“With the plow and the land-packer,” George
broke in. “He’ll have the satisfaction
of driving them twelve hours a day. It happens
to be the most effective way of doing the things he
mentions.”

Edgar’s laughter followed him as he left the
group.

After dinner that evening Herbert invited George into
the library.

“Parker has come over about my lease, and his
visit will save you a journey,” he explained.
“We may as well get things settled now while
he’s here.”

George went with him to the library, where the lawyer
sat at a writing-table. He waited in silence
while Herbert gave the lawyer a few instructions.
A faint draught flowed in through an open window,
and gently stirred the litter of papers; a shaded lamp
stood on the table, and its light revealed the faces
of the two men near it with sharp distinctness, though
outside the circle of brightness the big room was
almost dark.

It struck George that his cousin looked eager, as
if he were impatient to get the work finished; but
he reflected that this was most likely because Herbert
wished to discuss the matter of the lease. Then
he remembered with a little irritation what Ethel
said during the afternoon. It was not very lucid,
but he had an idea that she meant to warn him; and
Edgar had gone some length in urging that he should
leave the care of his property to another man.
This was curious, but hardly to be taken into consideration,
Herbert was capable and exact in his dealings; and
yet for a moment or two George was troubled by a faint
doubt. It appeared irrational, and he drove it
out of his mind when Herbert spoke.

Page 11

“The deed’s ready; you have only to sign,”
he said, indicating a paper. Then he added, with
a smile: “You quite realize the importance
of what you are doing?”

The lawyer turned to George.

“This document gives Mr. Lansing full authority
to dispose of your possessions as he thinks fit.
In accordance with it, his signature will be honored
as if it were yours.”

Parker’s expression was severely formal, and
his tone businesslike; but he had known George for
a long while, and had served his father. Again,
for a moment, George had an uneasy feeling that he
was being warned; but he had confidence in his friends,
and his cousin was eminently reliable.

“I know that,” he answered. “I’ve
left matters in Herbert’s hands on other occasions,
with fortunate results. Will you give me a pen?”

The lawyer watched him sign with an inscrutable face,
but when he laid down the pen, Herbert drew back out
of the strong light. He was folding the paper
with a sense of satisfaction and relief.

CHAPTER III

A MATTER OF DUTY

On the evening before George’s departure, Sylvia
stood with him at the entrance to the Brantholme drive.
He leaned upon the gate, a broad-shouldered, motionless
figure; his eyes fixed moodily upon the prospect,
because he was afraid to let them dwell upon his companion.
In front, across the dim white road, a cornfield ran
down to the river, and on one side of it a wood towered
in a shadowy mass against a soft green streak of light.
Near its foot the water gleamed palely among overhanging
alders, and in the distance the hills faded into the
grayness of the eastern sky. Except for the low
murmur of the stream, it was very still; and the air
was heavy with the smell of dew-damped soil.

All this had its effect on George. He loved
the quiet English country; and now, when he must leave
it, it strongly called to him. He had congenial
friends, and occupations in which he took pleasure—­sport,
experiments in farming, and stock-raising. It
would be hard to drop them; but that, after all, was
a minor trouble. He would be separated from
Sylvia until his work should be done.

“What a beautiful night!” she said at
length. Summoning his resolution, he turned
and looked at her. She stood with one hand resting
on the gate, slender, graceful, and wonderfully attractive,
the black dress emphasizing the pure whiteness of
her face and hands. Sylvia was an artist where
dress was concerned, and she had made the most of
her somber garb. As he looked at her a strong
temptation shook the man. He might still discover
some excuse for remaining to watch over Sylvia, and
seize each opportunity for gaining her esteem.
Then he remembered that this would entail the sacrifice
of her property; and a faint distrust of her, which
he had hitherto refused to admit, seized him.
Sylvia, threatened by poverty, might yield without
affection to the opportunities of a suitor who would
bid high enough for her hand; and he would not have
such a course forced upon her, even if he were the
one to profit.

Page 12

“You’re very quiet; you must feel going
away,” she said.

“Yes,” George admitted; “I feel
it a good deal.”

“Ah! I don’t know anybody else who
would have gone—­I feel selfish and shabby
in letting you.”

“I don’t think you could stop me.”

“I haven’t tried. I suppose I’m
a coward, but until you promised to look after matters,
I was afraid of the future. I have friends, but
the tinge of contempt which would creep into their
pity would be hard to bear. It’s hateful
to feel that you are being put up with. Sometimes
I thought I’d go back to Canada.”

“I’ve wondered how you stood it as long
as you did,” George said incautiously.

“Aren’t you forgetting? I had Dick
with me then.” Sylvia paused and shuddered.
“It would be so different now.”

George felt reproved and very compassionate.

“Yes,” he said, “I’m afraid
I forgot; but the whole thing seems unreal. It’s
almost impossible to imagine your living on a farm
in western Canada.”

“I dare say it’s difficult. I’ll
confess I’m fond of ease and comfort and refinement.
I like to be looked after and waited on; to have
somebody to keep unpleasant things away. That’s
dreadfully weak, isn’t it? And because
I haven’t more courage, I’m sending you
back to the prairie.”

“I’m quite ready to go.”

“Oh, I’m sure of that! It’s
comforting to remember that you’re so resolute
and matter-of-fact. You wouldn’t let troubles
daunt you—­perhaps you would scarcely notice
them when you had made up your mind.”

The man smiled, rather wistfully. He could feel
things keenly, and he had his romance; but Sylvia
resumed:

“I sometimes wonder if you ever felt really
badly hurt?”

“Once,” he said quietly. “I
think I have got over it.”

“Ah!” she murmured. “I was
afraid you would blame me, but now it seems that Dick
knew you better than I did. When he made you
my trustee, he said that you were too big to bear
him malice.”

The blood crept into George’s face.

“After the first shock had passed, and I could
reason calmly, I don’t think I blamed either
of you. You had promised me nothing; Dick was
a brilliant man, with a charm everybody felt.
By comparison, I was merely a plodder.”

“I can’t thank you properly,” she
continued; “though I know that all you undertake
will be thoroughly carried out. I wish I hadn’t
been forced to let you go so far away; there is nobody
else I can rely on.”

He could not tell her that he longed for the right
to shelter her always—­it was not very long
since the Canadian tragedy—­but silence
cost him an effort. At length she touched his
arm.

Page 13

“It’s getting late, and the others will
wonder where we are,” she reminded him.

They went back to the house; and when Sylvia joined
Mrs. Lansing, George felt seriously annoyed with himself.
He had been deeply stirred, but he had preserved
an unmoved appearance when he might have expressed
some sympathy of tenderness which could not have been
resented. Presently Ethel West crossed the room
to where he was rather moodily standing.

“I believe our car is waiting, and, as Edgar
won’t let me come to the station to-morrow,
I must say good-by now,” she told him.
“Both Stephen and I are glad he is on your hands.”

“Never mind that. We’re alike in
some respects: pretty speeches don’t appeal
to us. But there’s one thing I must tell
you—­don’t delay out yonder, come
back as soon as you can.”

She left him thoughtful. He had a high opinion
of Ethel’s intelligence, but he would entertain
no doubts or misgivings. They were treasonable
to Herbert and, what was worse, to Sylvia.

Going to bed in good time, he had only a few words
with Sylvia over his early breakfast in the morning.
Then he was driven to the station, where Edgar joined
him; and the greater part of their journey proved
uneventful.

Twelve days after leaving Liverpool they were, however,
awakened early one morning by feeling the express-train
suddenly slacken speed. The big cars shook with
a violent jarring, and George hurriedly swung himself
down from his upper berth. He had some difficulty
in getting into his jacket and putting on his boots,
but he pushed through the startled passengers and
sprang down upon the track before the train quite
stopped. He knew that accidents were not uncommon
in the wilds of northern Ontario.

Ragged firs rose, dripping, against the rosy glow
in the eastern sky, with the narrow gap, hewed out
for the line, running through their midst. Some
had been stripped of their smaller branches by fire,
and leaned, dead and blackened, athwart each other.
Beneath them, shallow pools gleamed in the hollows
of the rocks, which rose in rounded masses here and
there, and the gravel of the graded track was seamed
by water channels. George remembered having
heard the roar of heavy rain and a crash of thunder
during the night, but it was now wonderfully still
and fresh, and the resinous fragrance of the firs
filled the chilly air.

Walking forward, clear of the curious passengers who
poured from the cars, he saw a lake running back into
the woods. A tall water-tank stood on the margin
with a shanty, in which George imagined a telegraph
operator was stationed, at its foot. Ahead, the
great locomotive was pouring out a cloud of sooty
smoke. When George reached it he waited until
the engineer had finished talking to a man on the line.

“What are we stopping for? Has anything
gone wrong?” he asked.

Page 14

“Freight locomotive jumped the track at a wash-out
some miles ahead,” explained the engineer.
“Took the fireman with her; but I don’t
know much about it yet. Guess they’ll
want me soon.”

George got the man to promise to take him, and then
he went back until he met Edgar, to whom he related
what he had heard.

“I’m not astonished,” remarked the
lad, indicating one of the sleepers. “Look
at that—­the rail’s only held down
by a spike or two; we fasten them in solid chairs.
They’re rough and ready in this country.”

It was the characteristic hypercritical attitude of
the newly-arrived Englishman; and George, knowing
that the Canadians strongly resent it, noticed a look
of interest in the eyes of a girl standing near them.
She was, he imagined, about twenty-four years of age,
and was dressed in some thin white material, the narrow
skirt scarcely reaching to the tops of her remarkably
neat shoes. Her arms were uncovered to the elbows;
her neck was bare, but this displayed a beautiful skin;
and the face beneath the turned-down brim of the big
hat was attractive. George thought she was amused
at Edgar’s comment.

“Well,” he said, “while we put down
a few miles of metals they’d drive the track
across leagues of new country and make a start with
the traffic. They haven’t time to be particular,
with the great western wheat-land waiting for development.”

The girl moved away; and when word went around that
there would be a delay of several hours, George sat
down beside the lake and watched the Colonist passengers
wash their children’s clothes. It was,
he thought, rather a striking scene—­the
great train standing in the rugged wilderness, the
wide stretch of gleaming water running back among the
firs, and the swarm of jaded immigrants splashing bare-footed
along the beach. Their harsh voices and hoarse
laughter broke discordantly on the silence of the
woods.

After a while an elderly man, in badly-fitting clothes
and an old wide-brimmed hat, sauntered up with the
girl George had noticed, and stopped to survey the
passengers.

“A middling sample; not so many English as usual,”
he remarked. “If they keep on coming in
as they’re doing, we’ll get harvest hands
at a reasonable figure.”

“All he thinks about!” Edgar commented,
in a lowered voice. “That’s the
uncivil old fellow who smokes the vile leaf tobacco;
he drove me out of the car once or twice. It’s
hard to believe he’s her father; but in some
ways they’re alike.”

“I can’t help feeling sorry for them,”
the girl replied. “Look at those worn-out
women, almost too limp to move. It’s hot
and shaky enough in our cars; the Colonist ones must
be dreadful.”

“Good enough for the folks who’re in them;
they’re not fastidious,” said the man.

Page 15

They strolled on, and George felt mildly curious about
them. The girl was pretty and graceful, with
a stamp of refinement upon her; the man was essentially
rugged and rather grim. Suddenly, however, a
whistle blast rang out, and George hurried toward
the engine. It was beginning to move when he
reached it but, grasping a hand-rail, he clambered
up. The cab was already full of passengers, but
he had found a place on the frame above the wheels
when he saw the girl in the light dress running, flushed
and eager, along the line. Leaning down as far
as possible, he held out his hand to her.

“Get hold, if you want to come,” he called.
“There’s a step yonder.”

She seized his hand and smiled at him when he drew
her up beside him.

“Thanks,” she said. “I was
nearly too late.”

“Perhaps we had better make for the pilot, where
there’ll be more room,” George suggested,
as two more passengers scrambled up.

They crept forward, holding on by the guard-rail,
while the great engine began to rock as it gathered
speed. The girl, however, was fearless, and
at length they reached the front, and stood beneath
the big head-lamp with the triangular frame of the
pilot running down to the rails at their feet.
The ledge along the top of it was narrow, and when
his companion sat down George felt concerned about
her safety. Her hat had blown back, setting free
tresses of glossy hair; her light skirt fluttered
against the sooty pilot.

“You’ll have to allow me,” he said,
tucking the thin fabric beneath her and passing an
arm around her waist.

He thought she bore it well, for her manner was free
from prudish alarm or coquettish submission.
With sound sense, she had calmly acquiesced in the
situation; but George found the latter pleasant.
His companion was pretty, the swift motion had brought
a fine warmth into her cheeks, and a sparkle into
her eyes; and George was slightly vexed when Edgar,
appearing round the front of the engine, unnoticed
by the girl, surveyed him with a grin.

“Is there room for me?” he asked.
“I had to leave the place where I was, because
my fellow passengers didn’t seem to mind if they
pushed me off. A stranger doesn’t get
much consideration in this country.”

The girl looked up at him consideringly and answered,
through the roar of the engine:

“You may sit here, if you’ll stop criticizing
us.”

“It’s quite fair,” Edgar protested,
as he took his place by her side. “I’ve
been in Canada only three days, but I’ve several
times heard myself alluded to as an Englishman, as
if that were some excuse for me.”

“Are you sure you haven’t been provoking
people by your superior air?”

“I didn’t know I possessed one; but I
don’t see why I should be very humble because
I’m in Canada.”

The girl laughed good-humoredly, and turned to George.

“I’m glad I came. This is delightful,”
she said.

Page 16

It was, George admitted, an exhilarating experience.
The big engine was now running at top speed, rocking
down the somewhat roughly laid line. Banks of
trees and stretches of gleaming water sped past, The
rails ahead came flying back to them. The sun
was on the firs, and the wind that lashed George’s
face was filled with their fragrance. Once or
twice a tress of his companion’s hair blew across
his cheek, but she did not appear to notice this.
He thought she was conscious of little beyond the
thrill of speed.

At length the engine stopped where the line crossed
a lake on a high embankment. A long row of freight-cars
stood near a break in the track into which the rails
ran down, and a faint cloud of steam rose from the
gap.

George helped the girl down, anticipating Edgar, who
seemed anxious to offer his assistance, and they walked
forward until they could see into the pit. It
was nearly forty feet in depth, for the embankment,
softened by heavy rain, had slipped into the lake.
In the bottom a huge locomotive lay shattered and
overturned, with half a dozen men toiling about it.
The girl stopped with a little gasp, for there was
something strangely impressive in the sight of the
wreck.

“It’s dreadful, isn’t it?”
she exclaimed.

Then the men who had come with them gathered round.

“Where’s the fireman?” one of them
asked. “He was too late when he jumped.
Have they got him out?”

“Guess not,” said another. “See,
they’re trying to jack up the front of her.”

“Aren’t you mistaken about the man?”
George asked, looking at the first speaker meaningly.

“Why, no,” replied the other. “He’s
certainly pinned down among the wreck. They’ll
find him before long. Isn’t that a jacket
sleeve?”

He broke off with an exclamation, as Edgar drove an
elbow hard into his ribs; but it was too late.
The girl looked around at George, white in face.

“Is there a man beneath the engine? Don’t
try to put me off.”

“I’m afraid it’s the case.”

“Then why did you bring me?” she cried
with a shudder. “Take me away at once!”

George explained that he had forgotten the serious
nature of the accident. He hastily helped her
up and turned away with her, but when they had gone
a little distance she sat down on a boulder.

“I feel badly startled and ashamed,” she
exclaimed. “I was enjoying it, as a spectacle,
and all the time there was a man crushed to death.”
Then she recovered her composure. “Go back
and help. Besides, I think your friend is getting
into trouble.”

She was right. The man Edgar tried to silence
had turned upon him, savage and rather breathless.

“Now,” he said, “I’ll fix
you mighty quick. Think I’m going to have
a blamed Percy sticking his elbow into me?”

Edgar glanced at the big and brawny man, with a twinge
of somewhat natural uneasiness; but he was not greatly
daunted.

Page 17

“Oh, well,” he retorted coolly, “if
that’s the way you look at it! But if
you’re not in a desperate hurry, I’ll take
off my jacket.”

“What did you prod him for, anyway?” another
asked.

“I’m sorry I didn’t jab him twice
as hard; though I’d have wasted my energy,”
Edgar explained. “The fellow has no sense,
but that’s no reason why he should be allowed
to frighten a pretty girl.”

His antagonist looked as if a light had suddenly dawned
on him.

“Is that why you did it?”

“Of course! Do you think I’d attack
a man of nearly twice my weight without some reason?”

The fellow laughed.

“We’ll let it go at that. You’re
all right, Percy. We like you.”

“Thanks,” said Edgar; “but my name
isn’t Percy. Couldn’t you think of
something more stylish for a change?”

They greeted this with hoarse laughter; and George,
arriving on the scene, scrambled down into the pit
with them to help the men below. It was some
time later when he rejoined the girl, who was then
gathering berries in the wood. She saw that
his face and hands were grimy and his clothes were
soiled.

“I heard that you found the unfortunate man.
It was very sad,” she said. “But
what have you been doing since?”

“Shoveling a ton or two of gravel. Then
I assisted in jacking up one side of the engine.”

“Why? Did you enjoy it?”

George laughed; he had, as it happened, experienced
a curious pleasure in the work. He was accustomed
to the more vigorous sports; but, after all, they
led to no tangible results, and in this respect his
recent task was different—­one, as he thought
of it, could see what one had done. He had been
endowed with some ability of strictly practical description,
though it had so far escaped development.

“Yes,” he responded. “I enjoyed
it very much.”

The girl regarded him with a trace of curiosity.

“Was that because work of the kind is new to
you?”

“No,” George answered. “It
isn’t altogether a novelty. I once spent
three years in manual labor; and now when I look back
at them, I believe I was happy then.”

She nodded as if she understood.

“Shall we walk back?” she suggested.

They went on together, and though the sun was now
fiercely hot and the distance long, George enjoyed
the walk. Once they met a ballast train, with
a steam plow mounted at one end of it, and a crowd
of men riding on the open cars; but when it had passed
there was nothing to break the deep silence of the
woods. The dark firs shut in the narrow track
except when here and there a winding lake or frothing
river filled a sunny opening.

Soon after George and his companion reached the train,
the engine came back with a row of freightcars, and
during the afternoon the western express pulled out
again, and sped furiously through the shadowy bush.

Page 18

CHAPTER IV

GEORGE MAKES FRIENDS

It was nearing midnight when George walked impatiently
up and down the waiting-room in Winnipeg station,
for the western express was very late, and nobody
seemed to know when it would start. George was
nevertheless interested in his surroundings, and with
some reason. The great room was built in palatial
style, with domed roof, tessellated marble floor,
and stately pillars: it was brilliantly lighted;
and massively-framed paintings of snow-capped peaks
and river gorges adorned the walls. An excursion-train
from Winnipeg Beach had just come in, and streams
of young men and women in summer attire were passing
through the room. They all looked happy and prosperous:
he thought the girls’ light dresses were gayer
and smarter than those usually seen among a crowd
of English passengers; but there was another side
to the picture.

Rows of artistic seats ran here and there, and each
was occupied by jaded immigrants, worn out by their
journey in the sweltering Colonist cars. Piles
of dilapidated baggage surrounded them, and among it
exhausted children lay asleep. Drowsy, dusty
women, with careworn faces, were huddled beside them;
men bearing the stamp of ill-paid toil sat in dejected
apathy; and all about each group the floor, which was
wet with drippings from the roof, was strewn with banana
skins, crumbs, and scraps of food. There had
been heavy rains, and the atmosphere was hot and humid.
It was, however, the silence of these newcomers that
struck George most. There was no grumbling among
them—­they scarcely seemed vigorous enough
for that—­but as he passed one row he heard
a woman’s low sobbing and the wail of a fretful
child.

After a while the girl he had met on the train appeared
and intimated by a smile that he might join her.
They found an unoccupied seat, and a smartly-attired
young man who was approaching it stopped when he saw
them.

“Well,” he said coolly, “I guess
I won’t intrude.”

George felt seriously annoyed with him, but he was
reassured when his companion laughed with candid amusement.
Though there was no doubt of her prettiness, he had
already noticed that she did not impress one most
forcibly with the fact that she was an attractive young
woman. It seemed to sink into the background
when one spoke to her.

“It was rather tedious waiting in the hotel,”
she explained. “There was nobody I could
talk to; my father is busy with a grain broker.”

“Then he is a farmer?”

“Yes,” said the girl, “he has a
farm.”

“And you live out in the West with him?”

“Of course,” she said, smiling.
“Still, I have been in Montreal, and England.”
Then she turned and glanced at the jaded immigrants.
“One feels sorry for them; they have so much
to bear.”

George felt that she wished to change the subject,
and he followed her lead.

Page 19

“I feel inclined to wonder where they all go
to and how you employ them. Your people still
seem anxious to bring them in.”

“Yes,” she replied thoughtfully, “It’s
rather a difficult question. Of course, we pay
high wages—­people who say they must dispense
with help and can’t carry out useful projects
would like to see them lower—­but there’s
the long winter when, out West at least, very few men
can work. Then what the others have earned in
summer rapidly melts.”

“But what do the Canadian farm-hands and mechanics
think? It wouldn’t suit them to have wages
broken down.”

West had come up a few moments earlier.

“It doesn’t matter,” he laughed;
“they won’t be consulted. It’s
the other people who pull the strings, and they’re
adopting a forward policy—­rush them all
in; it’s their lookout when they get here.
That’s my opinion; though I’ll own that
I know remarkably little about western Canada.”

“You won’t admit he’s right,”
George said to the girl.

She looked grave.

“Sometimes,” she answered, “I wonder.”

Then she turned to West.

“You don’t seem impressed with the country,”
she said.

“As a rule, I try to be truthful. The
country strikes me as being pretty mixed, full of
contrasts. There’s this place, for instance;
one could imagine they had meant to build a Greek
temple, and now it looks more like a swimming-bath.
After planning the rest magnificently, why couldn’t
they put on a roof that wouldn’t leak?”

“It has been an exceptionally heavy rain,”
the girl reminded him.

“Just so. But couldn’t somebody
get a broom and sweep the water out? Our unimaginative
English folk could rise as far as that.”

She laughed good-humoredly, and her father sauntered
up to them.

“Any news of the train yet?” he asked.

“No, sir,” said Edgar. “In
my opinion, any attempt to extract reliable information
from a Canadian railroad-hand is a waste of time.
No doubt, it’s so scarce that it hurts them
to part with it.”

The Westerner looked at him with a little hard smile.
He was tall and gaunt and dressed in baggy clothes,
but there was a hint of power in his face, which was
lined, and deeply bronzed by exposure to the weather.

“Well,” he retorted, “what do you
expect, Percy, if you talk to them like that?
But I want to thank you and your partner for taking
care of my girl when she went to see the wreck.
Fellow on the cars told me—­said you were
a gritty pup!”

Edgar looked confused, but the man drew an old skin
bag out of his pocket.

“It’s domestic leaf; take a smoke.”

“No, thanks,” said Edgar quickly.
“I’ve no doubt it’s excellent, but
I really prefer the common Virginia stuff.”

Page 20

“Then I wonder if you knew an Englishman named
Marston?” George interposed.

“I certainly did; he died last winter.
Oughtn’t to have come out farming; he hadn’t
the grip.”

George felt surprised. He had always admired
Marston, who had excelled in whatever he took in hand.
It was strange and disconcerting to hear him disparaged.

“Will you tell me what you mean by that?”
he asked.

“Why, yes. I’ve nothing against
the man. I liked him—­guess everybody
did—­but the contract he was up against was
too big for him. Had his first crop frozen,
and lost his nerve and judgment after that—­the
man who gets ahead here must have the grit to stand
up against a few bad seasons. Marston acted
foolishly; wasted his money buying machines and teams
he could have done without, and then let up when he
saw it wouldn’t pay him to use them right off;
but that was part his wife’s fault. She
drove him pretty hard—­though, in some ways,
I guess he needed it.”

George frowned. Sylvia, he admitted, was ambitious,
and she might have put a little pressure upon Marston
now and then; but that she should have urged him on
toward ruin in her eagerness to get rich was incredible.

“I think you must be mistaken about his wife,”
he remarked.

“Well,” drawled the Canadian, “I’m
not always right.”

Then a bell tolled outside, an official shouted the
names of towns, and there was a sudden stir and murmur
of voices in the great waiting-room. Men seized
their bags and bundles, women dragged sleepy children
to their feet, and a crowd began to press about the
outlet.

“Guess that’s our train. She’s
going to be pretty full,” said the Canadian.

The party joined a stream of hurrying passengers,
and regretted their haste when they were violently
driven through the door and into a railed-off space
on the platform, where shouting railroad-hands were
endeavoring to restrain the surging crowd. Nobody
heeded them; the immigrants’ patience was exhausted,
and they had suddenly changed from a dully apathetic
multitude waiting in various stages of dejection to
a savage mob fired by one determined purpose.
Near by stood a long row of lighted cars, and the
immigrants meant to get on board them without loss
of time. There were two gates, guarded by officials
who endeavored to discriminate between the holders
of first and second class tickets, but the crowd was
in no mood to submit to the separation.

It raged behind the barrier, and when one gate was
rashly pushed back a little too far, a clamorous,
jostling mass of humanity stormed the opening.
Its guardians were flung aside, helpless, and the
foremost of the mob poured out upon the platform,
while the pressure about the gap grew insupportable.
Women screamed, children were reft away from their
mothers, panting men trampled over bags and bundles
torn from their owners’ hands, and George and
the elderly Canadian struggled determinedly to prevent
the girl’s being badly crushed. Edgar had
disappeared, though they once heard his voice, raised
in angry protest.

Page 21

They were forced close up to the outlet, when there
was a check. More officials had been summoned;
somebody had dropped a heavy box which obstructed
the passage, and a group of passengers began a savage
fight for its recovery. George seized a man
who was jostling the girl and thrust him backward;
but the next moment he was struck by somebody, and
he saw nothing of his companions when, after being
violently driven to and fro, he reached the gate.
A woman with two screaming children clinging to her
appeared beside him, and he held a man so that she
might pass. He was breathless, and almost exhausted,
but he secured her a little room; and then the pressure
suddenly slackened. The crowd swept out like
a flood from a broken dam, and in a few more moments
George stood, gasping, on the platform amid a thinner
stream of running people. There was no sign
of the Canadian or his daughter; the cars were besieged;
and George waited until Edgar joined him, flushed and
disheveled.

“I suppose I was lucky in getting through with
only my jacket badly torn,” said the lad, “I
wondered why the railroad people caged up their passengers
behind iron bars, but now I know.”

George laughed.

“I don’t think this kind of thing is altogether
usual. Owing to the accident, they’ve
no doubt had two trainloads to handle instead of one.
But the platform’s emptying; shall we look for
a place?”

They managed to enter a car, though the stream of
passengers, pouring in by the two vestibules, met
within in dire confusion, choking up the passage with
their baggage. Order was, however, restored at
last; and, with the tolling of the bell, and a jerk
that flung those unprepared off their feet, the great
express got off.

“Nobody left behind,” Edgar announced,
after a glance through the window. “I
can’t imagine where they put them all; though
I’ve never seen a train like this. But
what has become of our Canadian friends?”

George said he did not know, and Edgar resumed:

“I’m rather taken with the girl—­strikes
me as intelligent as well as fetching. The man’s
a grim old savage, but I’m inclined to think
he’s prosperous; when a fellow says he can’t
afford cigars I generally suspect him of being rich.
It’s a pity that stinginess is one of the roads
to affluence.”

The car, glaringly lighted by huge lamps, was crowded
and very hot, and after a while George went out on
to the rear platform for a breath of air. The
train had now left the city, and glancing back as it
swung around a curve, he wondered how one locomotive
could haul the long row of heavy cars. Then
he looked out across the wide expanse of grass that
stretched away in the moonlight to the dim blur of
woods on the horizon. Here and there clumps
of willows dotted the waste, but it lay silent and
empty, without sign of human life. The air was
pleasantly fresh after heavy rain; and the stillness
of the vast prairie was soothing by contrast with
the tumult from which they had recently escaped.

Page 22

Lighting his pipe, George leaned contentedly on the
rail. Then remembering what the Canadian had
said, he thought of his old friend Marston, a man
of charm and varied talents, whom he had long admired
and often rather humbly referred to. It was hard
to understand how Dick had failed in Canada, and harder
still to see why he had made his plodding comrade
his executor; for George, having seldom had occasion
to exert his abilities, had no great belief in them.
He had suffered keenly when Sylvia married Dick,
but the homage he had offered her had always been
characterized by diffidence, springing from a doubt
that she could be content with him; and after a sharp
struggle he succeeded in convincing himself that his
wound did not matter if she were happier with the
more brilliant man. He had entertained no hard
thoughts of her: Sylvia could do no wrong.
His love for her sprang rather from respect than
passion; in his eyes she was all that a woman ought
to be.

In the meanwhile his new friends were discussing him
in a car farther back along the train.

“I’m glad I had that Englishman by me
in the crowd,” the man remarked. “He’s
cool and kept his head, did what was needed and nothing
else. I allow you owe him something for bringing
you through.”

“Yes,” said the girl; “he was quick
and resolute.” Then reserving the rest
of her thoughts, she added: “His friend’s
amusing.”

“Percy? Oh, yes,” agreed her father.
“Nothing to notice about him—­he’s
just one of the boys. The other’s different.
What that fellow takes in hand he’ll go through
with.”

“You haven’t much to form an opinion on.”

“That doesn’t count. I can tell
if a man’s to be trusted when I see him.”

“You’re generally right,” the girl
admitted. “You were about Marston.
I was rather impressed by him when he first came out.”

Her father smiled.

“Just so. Marston had only one trouble—­he
was all on top. You saw all his good points
in the first few minutes. It was rough on him
that they weren’t the ones that are needed in
this country.”

“It’s a country that demands a great deal,”
the girl said thoughtfully.

“Sure,” was the dry reply. “The
prairie breaks the weak and shiftless pretty quick;
we only have room for hard men who’ll stand up
against whatever comes along.”

“And do you think that description fits the
Englishman we met?”

“Well,” said her father, “I guess
he wouldn’t back down if things went against
him.”

He went out for a smoke, and the girl considered what
he had said. It was not a matter of much consequence,
but she knew he seldom made mistakes, and in this
instance she agreed with him. As it happened,
George’s English relatives included one or two
clever people, but none of them held his talents in
much esteem. They thought him honest, rather
painstaking, and good-natured, but that was all.
It was left for two strangers to form a juster opinion;
which was, perhaps, a not altogether unusual thing.
Besides, the standards are different in western Canada.
There, a man is judged by what he can do.

Page 23

CHAPTER V

THE PRAIRIE

After a hot and tedious journey, George and his companion
alighted one afternoon at a little station on a branch
line, and Edgar looked about with interest when the
train went on again. A telegraph office with
a baggage-room attached occupied the middle of the
low platform, a tall water-tank stood at the end,
and three grain elevators towered high above a neighboring
side-track. Facing the track, stood a row of
wooden buildings varying in size and style: they
included a double-storied hotel with a veranda in
front of it, and several untidy shacks. Running
back from them, two short streets, thinly lined with
small houses, led to a sea of grass.

“Sage Butte doesn’t strike one as a very
exhilarating place,” George remarked.
“We’ll stroll round it, and then see about
rooms, since we have to stay the night.”

They left the station, but the main street had few
attractions to offer. Three stores, with strangely-assorted,
dusty goods in their windows fronted the rickety plankwalk;
beyond these stood a livery stable, a Chinese laundry,
and a few dwelling-houses. Several dilapidated
wagons and buggies were scattered about the uneven
road. In the side street, disorderly rows of
agricultural implements surrounded a store, and here
and there little board dwellings with wire mosquito-doors
and net-guarded windows, stood among low trees.
Farther back were four very small wooden churches.
It was unpleasantly hot, though a fresh breeze blew
clouds of dust through the place.

When they reached it, several untidy loungers sat
half asleep in the shade of the veranda, and though
they obstructed the approach to the entrance none
of them moved. Passing behind them, George opened
a door filled in with wire-mesh, and they entered
a hot room with a bare floor, furnished with a row
of plain wooden chairs. After they had rung
a bell for several minutes, a man appeared and looked
at them with languid interest from behind a short
counter.

“Can you put us up?” George inquired.

“Sure,” was the answer.

The man flung down a labeled key, twisted round his
register, which was fitted in a swivel frame, and
handed George a pen.

“We want two rooms,” Edgar objected.

“Can’t help that. We’ve only
got one.”

“I suppose we’d better take it.
Where can one get a drink?”

“Bar,” replied the other, indicating a
gap in a neighboring partition.

“They’re laconic in this country,”
Edgar remarked.

“Ever since I arrived in it, I’ve felt
as if I were a mere piece of baggage, to be hustled
along anyway without my wishes counting.”

“You’ll get used to it after a while,”
George consoled him.

Page 24

Entering the dark bar, Edgar refreshed himself with
several ice-cooled drinks, served in what he thought
were unusually small glasses. He felt somewhat
astonished when he paid for them.

“Thirst’s expensive on the prairie,”
he commented.

“Pump outside,” drawled the attendant.
“It’s rather mean water.”

They went upstairs to a very scantily furnished, doubled-bedded
room. George, warned by previous experience,
glanced around.

“There’s soap and a towel, anyway; but
I don’t see any water,” he remarked.
“I’ll take the jar; they’ll have
a rain-tank somewhere about.”

Edgar did not answer him. He was looking out
of the open window, and now that there was little
to obstruct his view, the prospect interested him.
It had been a wet spring, and round the vast half-circle
he commanded the prairie ran back to the horizon,
brightly green, until its strong coloring gave place
in the distance to soft neutral tones. It was
blotched with crimson flowers; in the marshy spots
there were streaks of purple; broad squares of darker
wheat checkered the sweep of grass, and dwarf woods
straggled across it in broken lines. In one
place was the gleam of a little lake. Over it
all there hung a sky of dazzling blue, across which
great rounded cloud-masses rolled.

Edgar looked around as George came in with the water.

“That’s great!” he exclaimed, indicating
the prairie; and then, turning toward the wooden town,
he added: “What a frightful mess man can
make of pretty things! Still, I’ve no
doubt the people who built the Butte are proud of
it.”

“If you talk to them in that style, you’ll
soon discover their opinion,” George laughed;
“but I don’t think it would be wise.”

Soon afterward a bell rang for supper, and going down
to a big room, they found seats at a table which had
several other occupants. Two of them, who appeared
to be railroad-hands, were simply dressed in trousers
and slate-colored shirts, and when they rested their
elbows on the tablecloth, they left grimy smears.
George thought the third man of the party, who was
neatly attired, must be the station-agent; the fourth
was unmistakably a newly-arrived Englishman.
As soon as they were seated, a very smart young woman
came up and rattled off the names of various unfamiliar
dishes.

“I think I’ll have a steak; I know what
that is,” Edgar told her.

She withdrew, and presently surrounded him with an
array of little plates, at which he glanced dubiously
before he attacked the thin, hard steak with a nickeled
knife which failed to make a mark on it. When
he made a more determined effort, it slid away from
him, sweeping some greasy fried potatoes off his plate,
and he grew hot under the stern gaze of the girl,
who reappeared with some coffee he had not ordered.

“Perhaps you had better take it away before
I do more damage, and let me have some fish,”
he said humbly.

Page 25

“Another time you’ll say what you want
at first. You can’t prospect right through
the menu,” she rebuked him.

In the meanwhile George had been describing his companions
on the train to one of the men opposite.

“He told me he was located in the district,
but I didn’t learn his name, and he didn’t
get off here,” he explained. “Do
you know him?”

“Sure,” said the other. “It’s
Alan Grant, of Poplar, ’bout eighteen miles
back. Guess he went on to the next station—­a
little farther, but it’s easier driving, now
they’re dumping straw on the trail.”

“Putting straw on the road?” Edgar broke
in. “Why are they doing that?”

“You’ll see, if you drive out north,”
the man answered shortly. Then he turned to
his better-dressed companion. “What are
you going to do with that carload of lumber we got
for Grant?”

“Send the car on to Benton.”

“She’s billed here.”

“Can’t help that—­the road’s
mistake. Grant ordered all his stuff to Benton.
What he says goes.”

This struck George as significant—­it was
only a man of importance whose instructions would
be treated with so much deference. Then the
agent turned to Edgar.

“What do you think of this country?”

“The country’s very nice. So far
as I’ve seen them, I can’t say as much
for the towns; they might be prettier.”

“Might be prettier?” exclaimed the agent.
“If they’re not good enough for you,
why did you come here?”

“I’m not sure it was a very judicious
move. But, you see, I didn’t know what
the place was like; and, after all, an experience of
this kind is supposed to be bracing.”

The agent ignored Edgar after this. He talked
to George, and elicited the information that the latter
meant to farm. Then he got up, followed by two
of the others, and the remaining man with the English
appearance turned to George diffidently.

The man’s face fell. He looked anxious,
and George remembered having seen a careworn woman
tearfully embracing him before their steamer sailed.
Her shabby clothes and despairing face had roused
George’s sympathy.

“Well,” said the man dejectedly, “that’s
for you to decide; but I’ve driven horses most
of my life, and until I get used to things I’d
be reasonable about the pay. I was told these
little places were the best to strike a job in; but,
so far as I can find out, there’s not much chance
here.”

George felt sorry for him. He suddenly made
up his mind.

“What are farm teamsters getting now?”
he asked a man who was leaving an adjacent table.

“Thirty dollars a month,” was the answer.

“Thanks,” said George, turning again to
the Englishman. “Be ready to start with
us to-morrow. I’ll take you at thirty dollars;
but if I don’t get my value out of you, we’ll
have to part.”

Page 26

“No fear of that, sir,” replied the other,
in a tone of keen satisfaction.

When they got outside, Edgar looked at George with
a smile.

“I’m glad you engaged the fellow,”
he said; “but considering that you’ll
have to teach him, were you not a little rash?”

“I’ll find out by and by.”
George paused, and continued gravely: “It’s
a big adventure these people make. Think of it—­the
raising of the passage money by some desperate economy,
the woman left behind with hardly enough to keep her
a month or two, the man’s fierce anxiety to
find some work! When I saw how he was watching
me, I felt I had to hire him.”

“Just so,” responded Edgar. “I
suppose I ought to warn you that doing things of the
kind may get you into trouble some day; but cold-blooded
prudence never did appeal to me.” He took
one of the chairs in front of the building and filled
his pipe before he continued: “We’ll
sit here a while, and then we might as well stroll
across the plain. The general-room doesn’t
strike me as an attractive place to spend the evening
in.”

An hour later they left the tall elevators and straggling
town behind, and after brushing through a belt of
crimson flowers, they followed the torn-up black trail
that led into the waste. After a mile or two
it broke into several divergent rows of ruts, and
they went on toward a winding line of bluff across
the short grass. Reaching that, they pushed
through the thin wood of dwarf birch and poplar, skirting
little pools from which mallard rose: and then,
crossing a long rise, they sat down to smoke on its
farther side. Sage Butte had disappeared, the
sun had dipped, and the air was growing wonderfully
fresh and cool. Here and there a house or barn
rose from the sweep of grass; but for the most part
it ran back into the distance lonely and empty.
It was steeped in strong, cold coloring, but on its
western rim there burned a vivid flush of rose and
saffron. Edgar was impressed by its vastness
and silence.

“This,” he said thoughtfully, “makes
up for a good deal. Once you get clear of the
railroad, it’s a captivating country.”

“Have you decided yet what you’re going
to do in it?”

“It’s too soon,” Edgar rejoined.
“The family idea was that I should stay about
twelve months, and then go back and enter some profession.
Ethel seems quite convinced that a little roughing
it will prove beneficial. I might, however,
stop out and try farming, which is one reason why
you can have my services for nothing for a time.
Considering what local wages are, don’t you think
you’re lucky?”

“That,” laughed George, “remains
to be seen.”

“Anyhow, there’s no doubt that Sylvia
Marston scores in securing you on the same favorable
terms. It has struck me that she’s a woman
who gets things easily.”

“She hasn’t always done so. Can
you imagine, for instance, what two years on a prairie
farm must have been to a delicate, fastidious girl,
brought up in luxury?”

Page 27

“I’ve an idea that Sylvia would manage
to avoid a good many of the hardships.”

“Sylvia would never shirk a duty,” George
declared firmly.

Edgar refilled his pipe.

“I’ve been thinking about Dick Marston,”
he said. “After the way he was generally
regarded at home, it was strange to hear that Canadian’s
opinions; but I’ve a notion that this country’s
a pretty severe touchstone. I mean that the
sort of qualities that make one popular in England
may not prove of much use here.”

“Dick lost his crop; that accounts for a good
deal,” George said shortly.

Edgar, knowing how staunch he was to his friends,
changed the subject; and when the light grew dim they
went back to the hotel. Breakfasting soon after
six the next morning, they took their places in a light,
four-wheeled vehicle, for which three persons’
baggage made a rather heavy load, and drove away with
the hired man. The grass was wet with dew, the
air invigoratingly cool, and for a time the fresh team
carried them across the waste at an excellent pace.
When he had got used to the frantic jolting, Edgar
found the drive exhilarating. Poplar bluffs,
little ponds, a lake shining amid tall sedges, belts
of darkgreen wheat, went by; and while the horses
plunged through tall barley-grass or hauled the vehicle
over clods and ruts, the same vast prospect stretched
away ahead. It filled the lad with a curious
sense of freedom: there was no limit to the prairies—­one
could go on and on, across still wider stretches beyond
the horizon.

By and by, however, they ran in among low sandy hills,
dotted with dwarf pines here and there, and the pace
slackened. The grass was thin, the wheels sank
in deep, loose sand, and the sun was getting unpleasantly
hot. For half an hour they drove on; and then
the team came to a standstill, necked with spume,
at the foot of a short, steep rise. Edgar alighted
and found the heat almost insupportable. There
was glaring sand all about him, and the breeze which
swept the prairie was cut off by the hill in front.

“You’ll have to help the team,”
George told him, as he went to the horses’ heads.

Edgar and the hired man each seized a wheel and endeavored
to start the vehicle, while the horses plunged in
the slipping sand. They made a few yards, with
clouds of grit flying up about them, and afterward
came to a stop again. Next they tried pushing;
and after several rests they arrived, breathless and
gasping, at the crest of the rise. There was
a big hollow in front, and on the opposite side a
ridge which looked steeper than the last one.

“How much do you think there is of this?”
Edgar inquired.

“I can’t say,” George answered.
“I know of one belt that runs for forty miles.”

Even walking downhill was laborious, for they sank
ankle-deep, but it was very much worse when they faced
the ascent. Short as the hill was, it took them
some time to climb; and, with the hired man’s
assistance, Edgar carried a heavy trunk up the last
part of it. Then he sat down.

Page 28

“I’m not sure I can smoke, but I intend
to try,” he said. “If you mean to
rush the next hill right off, you will go without me.”
He turned to the hired man. “What do
you think of these roads, Grierson?”

“I’ve seen better, sir,” the other
answered cautiously. “Perhaps the hills
don’t go on very far.”

“It’s my opinion there’s no end
to them! Hauling a load of wheat through this
kind of country must be a bit of an undertaking.”

After a short rest, they toiled for an hour through
the sand; and then rode slowly over a road thickly
strewn with straw, which bore the wheels. It
led them across lower ground to a strong wire fence,
where it forked: one branch skirting the barrier
along the edge of a muskeg, the other running through
the enclosed land. Deciding to take the latter,
George got down at the entrance, which was barred by
several strands of wire, firmly fastened.

“Half an hour’s work here,” Edgar
commented. “Driving’s rather an
arduous pastime in western Canada.”

They crossed a long field of barley, a breadth of
wheat, and passed an empty house; then wound through
a poplar wood until they reached the grass again.
It was long and rank, hiding the ruts and hollows
in the trail; but after stopping a while for dinner
in the shadow of a bluff, they jolted on, and in the
afternoon they reached a smoother track. Crossing
a low rise, they saw a wide stretch of wheat beneath
them, with a house and other buildings near its margin.

“That,” said George, “is Sylvia’s
farm.”

Half an hour later, they drove through the wheat,
at which George glanced dubiously; and then, traversing
a belt of light sandy clods partly grown with weeds,
they drew up before the house. It was double-storied,
roomy, and neatly built of wood; but it was in very
bad repair, and the barn and stables had a neglected
and half-ruinous look. Implements and wagons
which had suffered from exposure to the weather, stood
about outside. Edgar noticed that George’s
face was grave.

“I am afraid we have our work cut out,”
he said. “We’ll put up the team,
and then look round the place and see what needs doing
first.”

CHAPTER VI

GEORGE GETS TO WORK

It was an oppressive evening, after a day of unusual
heat. Edgar sat smoking outside the homestead.
He had been busy since six o’clock that morning,
and he felt tired and downcast. Massed thunder-clouds
brooded over the silent prairie, wheat and grass had
faded to dingy green and lifeless gray, and Edgar
tried to persuade himself that his moodiness was the
effect of the weather. This was partly the case,
but he was also suffering from homesickness and a
shrinking from what was new and strange.

Page 29

The wooden house had a dreary, dilapidated look; the
weathered, neglected appearance of barns and stables
was depressing. It was through a neighboring
gap in the fence that Marston’s team had brought
their lifeless master home; and Edgar had seen enough
to realize that the man must have grown slack and
nerveless before he had succumbed. The farm had
broken down Marston’s strength and courage, and
now another man, less gifted in many ways, had taken
it in charge. Edgar wondered how he would succeed;
but in spite of a few misgivings he had confidence
in George.

After a while the latter, who had been examining Marston’s
farming books, came out, looking grave; he had worn
a serious air since their arrival.

“There’ll have to be a change,”
he said. “Dick’s accounts have given
me something to think about. I believe I’m
beginning to understand now how his money went.”

“I suppose you haven’t got the new program
cut and dried yet?” Edgar suggested.

George was seldom precipitate.

“No,” he answered. “I’ve
a few ideas in my mind.”

“Won’t you have some trouble about finances,
if the alterations are extensive?”

“I’ll have to draw on my private account,
unless Herbert will assist.”

“Herbert won’t do anything of the kind,”
said Edgar decidedly.

George, making no answer, called Grierson from the
stable.

“You’ll drive in to the settlement after
breakfast to-morrow, Tom,” he said. “Tell
the man I’ll keep the team, if he’ll knock
off twenty dollars, and he can have his check when
he likes. Then bring out the flour and groceries.”

“I suppose I won’t be going in again for
a while; we’ll be too busy?”

“It’s very likely,” said Edgar,
knowing his comrade’s temperament.

“Then I wonder if I could draw a pound or two?”
asked Grierson diffidently.

“Why?” George questioned him. “The
Immigration people would see that you had some money
before they let you in.”

“I’ve four pounds now; I want to send
something home at once.”

“Ah!” said George. “I see.
How much did you leave your wife?”

“About three pounds, sir; I had to bring enough
to pass me at Quebec.”

“Then if you give me what you have, I’ll
let you have a check for twice as much on an English
bank. Better get your letter written.”

Grierson’s look was very expressive as he turned
away with a word of thanks; and Edgar smiled at George.

“You have bought that fellow—­for
an advance of four pounds,” he said.

George showed a little embarrassment.

“I was thinking of the woman,” he explained.

Then he pointed to the prairie.

“There’s a rig coming. It looks
like visitors.”

Soon afterward, Grant, whom they had met on the train,
drew up his team and helped his daughter down.

“We were passing and thought we’d look
in,” he said. “Found out yesterday
that you were located here.”

Page 30

George called Grierson to take the team, and leading
the new arrivals to the house, which was still in
disorder, he found them seats in the kitchen.
It was rather roughly and inadequately furnished,
and Edgar had decided that Sylvia had spent little
of her time there. After they had talked for
a while, a man, dressed in blue duck trousers, a saffron-colored
shirt, and an old slouch hat, which he did not remove,
walked in, carrying a riding quirt. Grant returned
his greeting curtly, and then the man addressed George.

“I heard you were running this place,”
he said.

“That’s correct.”

“Then I put in the wheat on your summer fallow;
Mrs. Marston told me to. Thought I’d come
along and let you have the bill.”

His manner was assertively offhand, and George did
not ask him to sit down.

“It’s a very second-rate piece of work,”
George said. “You might have used the
land-packer more than you did.”

“It’s good enough. Anyway, I’ll
trouble you for the money.”

Edgar was sensible of indignation mixed with amusement.
This overbearing fellow did not know George Lansing.

“I think you had better take off your hat before
we go any farther—­it’s customary.
Then you may tell me what I owe you.”

The man looked astonished, but he complied with the
suggestion, and afterward stated his charge, which
was unusually high. Edgar noticed that Grant
was watching George with quiet interest.

“I suppose you have a note from Mrs. Marston
fixing the price?”

The other explained that the matter had been arranged
verbally.

“Was anybody else present when you came to terms?”
George asked.

“You can quit feeling, and pay up!” exclaimed
the stranger. “I’ve told you how
much it is.”

“The trouble is that you’re asking nearly
double the usual charge per acre.”

Grant smiled approvingly, but the man advanced with
a truculent air to the table at which George was sitting.

“I’ve done the work; that’s good
enough for me.”

“You have done it badly, but I’ll give
you a check now, based on the regular charge, which
should come to”—­George made a quick
calculation on a strip of paper and handed it to the
man. “This is merely because you seem
in a hurry. If you’re not satisfied, you
can wait until I get an answer from Mrs. Marston;
or I’ll ask some of my neighbors to arbitrate.”

The man hesitated, with anger in his face.

“I guess I’ll take the check,” he
said sullenly.

Crossing the floor, George took a pen and some paper
from a shelf.

“Sit here,” he said, when he came back,
“and write me a receipt.”

The other did as he was bidden, and George pointed
toward the door.

“That’s settled; I won’t keep you.”

The man looked hard at him, and then went quietly
out; and Grant leaned back in his seat with a soft
laugh.

Page 31

“You fixed him,” he remarked. “He
has the name of being a tough.”

“I suppose an Englishman newly out is considered
lawful prey.”

“A few of them deserve it,” Grant returned
dryly. “But let that go. What do
you think of the place?”

George felt that he could trust the farmer.
He had spent a depressing day, during which all he
saw had discouraged him. Marston had farmed
in a singularly wasteful manner; fences and outbuildings
were in very bad repair; half the implements were
useless; and it would be a long and costly task to
put things straight.

“I feel that I’ll have my hands full.
In fact, I’m a little worried about it; there
are so many changes that must be made.”

“Sure. Where are you going to begin?”

“By getting as much summer fallowing as possible
done on the second quarter-section. The first
has been growing wheat for some time; I’ll sew
part of that with timothy. There’s one
bit of stiff land I might put in flax. I’ve
thought of trying corn for the silo.”

“Timothy and a silo?” commented Grant.

“You’re going in for stock, then?
It means laying out money, and a slow return.”

“I’m afraid so. Still, you can’t
grow cereals year after year on this light soil.
It’s a wasteful practise that will have to be
abandoned, as people here seem to be discovering.
Grain won’t pay at sixteen bushels to the acre.”

“A sure thing,” Grant agreed. “I’m
sticking right to wheat, but that’s because
I’m too old to change my system, and I’m
on black soil, which holds out longer.”

“But you’re taking the nature out of it.”

“It will see me through if I fallow,”
said Grant. “When I’ve done with
it and sell out, somebody else can experiment with
mixed crops and stock-raising. That’s
going to become the general plan, but it’s costly
at the beginning.” Then he rose.
“I’ll walk round the place with you.”

They went out, and the girl fell behind with Edgar.
He had learned that her name was Flora.

“Mr. Lansing seems to understand farming,”
she remarked. “He didn’t tell us
he had been on the prairie before.”

“He hasn’t told you now,” Edgar
pointed out.

“George never does tell things about himself
unless there’s a reason.”

“He soon got rid of the fellow who sowed the
crop.”

Edgar laughed.

“I knew the man would meet with a surprise.
George’s abilities are not, as a rule, obvious
at first sight. People find them out by accident,
and then they’re somewhat startled.”

“You’re evidently an admirer of his.
Do you mean to go in for farming?”

“I am, though I wouldn’t have him suspect
it,” said Edgar. “In answer to the
other question, I haven’t made up my mind.
Farming as it’s carried on in this country
seems to be a rather arduous occupation. In
the meanwhile, I’m undergoing what English people
seem to think of as the Canadian cure; that is, I’ve
been given a chance for readjusting my ideas and developing
my character.”

Page 32

“Under Mr. Lansing’s guidance?”

Edgar realized that the girl was less interested in
him than in George, but he did not resent this.

“You’re smart. I believe my people
entertained some idea of that nature; George is considered
safe. Still, to prevent any misapprehension,
I’d better point out that my chief failings are
a fondness for looking at the amusing side of things
and a slackness in availing myself of my opportunities.
As an instance of the latter defect, I’m boring
you by talking about Lansing.”

Flora regarded him with a quiet smile.

“It struck me that you were saying something
about yourself.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Edgar admitted.
“It clears the ground.”

“For what?”

“For an extension of our acquaintance, among
other things.”

“Do you want it extended?”

They had stopped at the edge of a hollow filled with
tall, harsh grass, and Edgar studied her while he
considered his answer. There was nothing that
suggested coquetry in the faint amusement she displayed;
this was a girl with some depth of character, though
he realized that she was pretty. She carried
herself well; she was finely and strongly made; her
gray eyes were searching; and she had a rather commanding
manner. Her hair was a warm brown, clustering
low on a smooth forehead; nose and lips and chin were
firmly molded.

“Yes,” he answered candidly; “I’m
feeling the strangeness of the country, and I’ve
an idea that both George and I may need friends in
it. It strikes me that you and your father would
prove useful ones.”

“Well,” she said, “he’s sometimes
called hard, and he’s a little prejudiced on
certain points, but he can be very staunch to those
he takes a liking to.”

“I believe,” Edgar rejoined, “that
also applies to you; I don’t mean the first
of it.”

Flora changed the subject.

“I gather that you’re not favorably impressed
with the place.”

“I’m not. If I had to farm it, I’d
feel scared; and I don’t think George is happy.
It’s hard to understand how Marston let it get
into such a state.”

“He was unfitted for the work, and he was further
handicapped.”

“How?” Edgar asked.

“You may have noticed that while economy ruled
outside, the house is remarkably well furnished.
The money Marston spent in Winnipeg stores should
have gone into the land.”

Edgar nodded; he did not agree with George’s
opinion of Sylvia.

“You don’t seem to approve of the way
Mrs. Marston managed things. It’s rather
curious. I always thought her pretty capable
in some respects.”

“That’s very possible,” said Flora
with a hint of dryness.

“After all, it may not have been her fault,”
Edgar suggested. “Marston was a generous
fellow; he may have insisted on thinking first of her
comfort.”

“Then she ought to have stopped him,”
said Flora firmly. “Do you think a woman
should let a man spoil his one chance of success in
order to surround her with luxury?”

Page 33

“The answer’s obvious.”

A dazzling flash of lightning leaped from the mass
of somber cloud overhead, and they turned back toward
the house, which George and Grant reached soon afterward.
Grant said that he must get home before the storm
broke, and Grierson brought out his spirited team.
It had grown nearly dark; a curious leaden haze obscured
the prairie; and when the man was getting into his
light, spring-seated wagon, a jagged streak of lightning
suddenly reft the gloom and there was a deafening roll
of thunder. The horses started. Grant
fell backward from the step, dropping the reins; and
while the others stood dazzled by the flash, the terrified
animals backed the vehicle with a crash against the
stable. Then they plunged madly forward toward
the fence, with the reins trailing along the ground.
Flora had got in before her father, and she was now
helpless.

It was too late when Grant got up; Grierson and Edgar
were too far away, and the latter stood still, wondering
with a thrill of horror what the end would be; he
did not think the horses saw the thin wire fence,
and the gap in it was narrow. If they struck
a post in going through, the vehicle would overturn.
Then George, running furiously, sprang at the horses’
heads, and went down, still holding on. He was
dragged along a few yards, but the pace slackened,
and Edgar ran forward with Grierson behind him.
For a few moments there was a savage struggle, but
they stopped and held the team, until Grant coolly
cleared the reins and flung them to his daughter.

“Stick tight while I get up, and then watch
out,” he said to the others.

He was seated in another moment, the girl quietly
making room for him; then, to Edgar’s astonishment,
he lashed the frantic horses with the whip, and, plunging
forward, they swept madly through the opening in the
fence, with the wagon jolting from rut to rut.
A minute or two afterward they had vanished into
the thick obscurity that veiled the waste of grass,
and there was a dazzling flash and a stunning roll
of thunder. George, flushed and breathless,
looked around with a soft laugh.

“Grant has pretty good nerve,” he said.

“That’s so, sir,” Grierson agreed.
“Strikes me he’ll take some of the wickedness
out of his team before he gets them home. I noticed
that Miss Grant didn’t look the least bit afraid.”

Then a deluge of rain drove them into the house, where
Edgar sat smoking thoughtfully; for what Flora Grant
had said about Sylvia had a disturbing effect on him.
It looked as if her selfish regard for her comfort
had hampered Marston in his struggle; and though Edgar
had never had much faith in Sylvia, this was painful
to contemplate. Moreover, George cherished a
steadfast regard for her, which complicated things;
but Edgar prudently decided that the matter was a
delicate one and must be left to the people most concerned.
After all, Miss Grant might be mistaken.

Page 34

CHAPTER VII

A CATTLE DRIVE

George was summer fallowing, sitting in the iron saddle
of a plow which a heavy Clydesdale team hauled through
the stubble. The work should have been done
earlier, for the soil on the Marston farm was very
light, and, as it had already grown several crops of
cereals, George was anxious to expose it to the influence
of sun and wind as soon as possible. It was
about the middle of the afternoon and very hot.
Rounded cloud-masses overhung the plain, but dazzling
sunshine fell on grass and stubble, and a haze of
dust surrounded the team, while now and then the fine
soil and sand, blown from the rest of the fallow by
the fresh breeze, swept by in streams. George
wore motor-goggles to protect his eyes, but his face
and hands felt scorched and sore. Farther back,
Edgar plodded behind a lighter team, making very poor
progress.

Presently George looked up and saw Flora Grant riding
toward him. She sat astride, but her skirt fell
in becoming lines, and he thought the gray blouse
and wide Stetson hat, with a red band round it, most
effective. She reined up her horse near the plow,
and George got down.

“I was passing—­going on to Forsyth’s
place—­and my father asked me to call,”
she said. “You were talking about buying
cattle, and a man at Dunblane has some good Herefords
to sell. Father thinks they would suit you.”

“His recommendation carries weight,” said
George.

“I’ll go and see them. I must thank
you for bringing me word.”

“I’ve another message. It’s
this—­when you’re buying stock, be
cautious how you bid.”

“As I’m not well up in local prices, I
wish Mr. Grant had been a little plainer.”

“He went farther than I expected. You
see, as a friend of the seller, he’s awkwardly
fixed.”

“Just so,” said George. “But,
if you’re not in the same position, you might
give me a hint. How much is the value of Canadian
cattle usually below the price likely to be asked
of a new arrival?”

“In this case, I should say about fifty per
cent,” Flora answered, with a laugh.

Edgar stopped his team near by, and Flora regarded
him with amusement as he came toward them, his red
face streaked with dust.

“You look a good deal more like a western farmer
than you did when I saw you last,” she laughed.

Edgar removed his goggles and surveyed his working
attire somewhat disgustedly.

“I wonder whether that’s a compliment;
but now that I’ve made the first plunge, I’d
better go through with it—­get a flappy hat
and a black shirt, or one of those brilliant orange
ones.”

“The latter are more decorative. But,
as you are going on a two days’ journey to drive
some cattle, I’ll tell you how to find the way.”

Page 35

“You had better tell George. I can only
remember the things that interest me.”

Flora gave them clear instructions, and when she rode
away George turned to Edgar.

“You’ll have to come, and we’ll
start at once. Grierson can go on plowing with
the Clydesdales, which is more than you could do.”

“I’m afraid I must admit it,” said
Edgar, glancing at his ragged furrow. “But
I’m going to have my supper and put up some provisions
before I leave the place.”

They set out an hour later, and safely reached their
destination, where George purchased a dozen cattle.
They were big, red and white, long-horned animals,
accustomed to freedom, for fences are still scarce
on tracts of the prairie, and they ranged about the
corral in a restless manner. Edgar, leaning
on the rails, watched them dubiously.

“They look unusually active,” he remarked.
“I’m not an expert at cattle-driving,
but I suppose two of us ought to take them home.”

The rancher laughed.

“Two’s quite a good allowance for that
small bunch, but if you keep north among the scrub
poplar, you won’t be bothered by many fences.
It’s pretty dry in summer, but you’ll get
good water in Baxter’s well, if you head for
the big bluff you’ll see tomorrow afternoon.
We’ll let them out when you’re ready.”

As soon as the rails were flung down, the cattle rushed
out tumultuously, as if rejoicing in their restored
freedom. Then, while George and his companion
mounted, they started off across the prairie at a
steady trot.

“A mettlesome lot; seem to be in good training,”
Edgar commented. “Have you any idea where
they’re going?”

“Guess they’re heading for a creek two
miles back; water’s scarce,” explained
the rancher. “As it’s near the trail,
you had better let them go. You’ll round
them up quite easy when they’ve had a drink.”

George and Edgar rode after the cattle. The
sun was getting low, but the temperature showed no
signs of falling, and the men were soon soaked in
perspiration. The herd went on at a good pace,
making for a wavy line of timber, and on reaching
it, plunged down the side of a declivity among little
scattered trees. A stream trickled through willow
bushes and tall grass in the bottom of the hollow,
and the men. had trouble in forcing the cattle to
leave the water. Before they accomplished it,
Edgar had got very wet and had scratched himself badly
in scrambling through the brush.

“Driving stock is by no means so easy as it
looks,” he grumbled, when they had climbed the
opposite ascent, leading their horses. “The
way these beasts jump about among the bushes confuses
you; I’d have sworn there were forty of them
in the ravine.”

“I see only nine now,” George said pointedly.

Edgar looked back into the hollow.

“There are three of the brutes slipping away
upstream as fast as they can go! You’re
smarter at the thing than I am—­hadn’t
you better go after them?”

Page 36

“I expect I’ll be needed to keep this
bunch together,” George rejoined.

Edgar strode away, but it was half an hour later when
he came back, hot and angry, with the cattle crashing
through the brush in front of him. Then the reunited
herd set off at a smart pace across the plain.

“They seem fond of an evening gallop,”
Edgar remarked. “Anyhow, they’re
going the right way, which strikes me as something
to be thankful for.”

They rode on, and it was getting dark when they checked
the herd near a straggling poplar bluff. The
grass was good, the beasts began to feed quietly,
and after picketing their horses the men lay down on
their blankets. It was growing cooler, a vivid
band of green still flickered along the prairie’s
rim, and the deep silence was intensified by the soft
sound the cattle made cropping the dew-damped herbage.

“I wonder if they go to sleep,” mused
Edgar. “I’m beginning to think this
kind of thing must be rather fine when one gets used
to it. It’s a glorious night.”

By and by he drew his blanket round him and sank into
slumber; but for a while George, who had paid a high
price for a Hereford bull, lay awake, thinking and
calculating. It would cost a good deal more than
he had anticipated to work the farm; Sylvia had no
funds that could be drawn upon, and his means were
not large. Economy and good management would
be needed, but he was determined to make a success
of his undertaking. At last, seeing that the
herd showed no signs of moving, he went to sleep.

Awakening at sunrise George found that, except for
the horses, there was not a beast in sight.
For an hour he and West hunted them through the bluff;
and then, after making a hurried breakfast, they went
on their way again. It rapidly got hotter, the
stock traveled quietly, and, with a halt or two where
a clump of poplars offered a little shade, they rode,
scorched by dazzling sunshine, across the limitless
plain. In the afternoon George began to look
eagerly for the bluff that the rancher mentioned.
They had found no water, and the cattle seemed distressed.
The glare and heat were getting intolerable, but
the vast, gradual rise in front of them ran on, unbroken,
to the skyline. Its crest, however, must be
crossed before evening; and they toiled on.

At last, the long ascent was made, and George felt
relieved when he saw a dark line of trees in the wide
basin below him.

“That must be the big bluff where the well is;
though I don’t see a house,” he said.

They had some trouble in urging the herd down the
slope, but after a while they reached the welcome
shadow of the trees, and Edgar broke into a shout
when he saw a rude wooden platform with a windlass
upon it and a trough near by.

“Ride ahead with the horses and water them,”
said George, dismounting.

Edgar did as he was bidden, but presently the herd,
attracted by the sight of water, came surging round
the trough, savagely jostling one another. The
lad worked hard with the windlass, but he could not
keep them supplied, and they crowded on the low platform
covering the well, with heads stretched out eagerly
toward the dripping bucket. After being flung
against the windlass by a thirsty beast, Edgar called
to his companion.

Page 37

“They’ll break through if you’re
not quick! It’s my opinion they’re
bent on getting down the well!”

George came to his assistance with his riding quirt,
but when they were supplying the last two or three
unsatisfied animals, a man ran out of the bluff.

“What in thunder are you doing with our water?”
he cried.

“He looks angry,” Edgar commented.
“When that rancher fellow told us about the
well, he didn’t mention the necessity of asking
Mr. Baxter’s permission.” Then he
waved his hand to the stranger.

“Come here and have a talk!”

The man came on at a quicker run. His face was
hot with indignation, and on reaching them he broke
into breathless and pointed expostulations.

“No,” he said; “that would be taking
a pretty mean pull on you; but water’s scarce,
and you can’t have any more.”

“Well,” requested George, “have
you a paddock or corral you could let me put this
bunch of cattle into until the morning? I’m
willing to pay for the accommodation.”

“I can’t do it,” replied the other.
“I want all the fenced grass I’ve got.
Take them right along, and you’ll strike a creek
about six miles ahead. Then you ought to make
the river to-morrow night.”

It was obvious that he desired to be rid of them;
and as it was getting cooler George resumed his journey.
He found the creek early the next morning, and as
the day promised to be unusually hot he delayed only
until he had watered the stock. In an hour or
two the sun was hidden by banks of leaden cloud, but
the temperature did not fall and there was an oppressive
heaviness in the air. The prairie had faded to
a sweep of lifeless gray, obscured above its verge.
The men made progress, however; and late in the afternoon
a winding line of timber that marked the river’s
course appeared ahead. Shortly afterward, Edgar
looked around.

“That’s a curious streak of haze in the
distance,” he remarked.

“It’s smoke,” said George.
“Grass fires are not uncommon in hot weather.
It looks like a big one.”

They urged the cattle on a little faster, but it was
evening when they reached the first of the trees.
George rode forward between them and pulled up his
horse in some concern. The ford had been difficult
when they crossed it on the outward journey, but now
the space between bank and bank was filled by an angry
flood. It rolled by furiously, lapping in frothy
ripples upon the steep slope that led down to it.

“Nearly an extra three feet of water; there’d
be a risk in crossing,” he said, when Edgar
joined him.

“We couldn’t make the place where the
trail runs in, and the landing down-stream from it
looks bad.”

“Then what ought we to do?” Edgar inquired.

“Wait until to-morrow. There’s no
doubt been a heavy thunderstorm higher up, but the
water should soon run down.” George glanced
back toward the prairie dubiously. “I’m
a little anxious about the fire; but, after all, it
may not come near us.”

Page 38

The cattle did not wander far after drinking, and
the men ate their supper. It grew dark, but
the heat did not lessen, and the oppressive air was
filled with a smell of burning. Looking back
between the trees, they could see a long streak of
yellow radiance leaping up, and growing dim when the
view was obstructed by clouds of smoke.

“It’s an awkward situation, and, as if
it were not bad enough, there’s a big thunderstorm
brewing,” Edgar said at length. “I’ll
go along and look at the mark you made upon the bank.”

He strode away among the trees. It was very
dark. The tethered horses were moving restlessly;
but, so far as Edgar could make out, the cattle were
bunched together. After lighting a match he came
back.

“The water’s falling, but only slowly,”
he reported. “Should we try to drive the
stock along the bank?”

“We couldn’t herd them in the dark.
Besides, it’s an extensive fire, and I’m
doubtful whether we could get down to the water farther
along.”

They waited for an hour, keeping the cattle together
with some trouble, and watching the blaze, which grew
brighter rapidly. At last, wisps of pungent
smoke rolled into the bluff.

“The beasts are ready to stampede!” George
suddenly called to Edgar. “We’ll
have to make a start! Get into the saddle and
drive them toward the ford!”

They were very busy for a while. Their horses
were hard to manage, the timber was thick, and the
herd attempted to break away through it; but at last
they reached the steep dip to the waterside.
One beast plunged in and vanished, more followed,
and George, plying his quirt and shouting, rode in
among the diminishing drove. He felt the water
lapping about his boots, and then the horse lost its
footing. George dropped from the saddle and
seized a stirrup. For some minutes he could
see a few dark objects about him, but they disappeared,
and he and the horse were swept away down-stream.

He kept hold—­the animal was swimming strongly—­and
after a time a lurid flash of lightning showed him
a black mass of trees close ahead. They vanished,
the succeeding darkness was impenetrable, and the crash
of thunder was deadened by the roar of water.
For a moment or two his head was driven under, but
when he got it clear, another dazzling flash revealed
a high bank only a few yards away, and when thick darkness
followed he felt the horse rise to its feet.
Then he touched soft bottom, and a little later scrambled
up an almost precipitous slope with the bridle in
his hand and the horse floundering behind him.
They reached the summit, and, stopping among thin
timber, it was with strong relief that he heard Edgar’s
shout. Shortly afterward the lad appeared, leading
his horse.

“There’s some of the drove on this side;
I don’t see the rest,” he said, glancing
toward the opposite bank, where dark trees stood out
against a strong red glare.

“It strikes me we only got across in time.”

Page 39

Then torrential rain broke upon them, and while they
stood, unable to move forward, a cry reached them
faintly through the roar of the deluge. It came
again when George answered, and was followed by a
crackling and snapping of underbrush. Then, as
a blaze of lightning filled the bluff with radiance,
two men appeared for a moment, leading their horses
among the slender trunks. They were immediately
lost to sight again, but presently they came up, and
George recognized Grant by his voice.

“So you have got through, Lansing,” he
cried. “I met Constable Flett on the trail,
and, as he told me the river was rising and there was
a big fire west, I figured you must be up against
trouble.”

He asked a few questions and then resumed:

“As you got the stock started, they’ll
have swum across; but we can’t round them up
until it’s light. There’s a deserted
shack not far off, and I guess we’ll head for
it.”

The constable agreed; and, mounting when they had
got out of the timber, they rode off through the rain.

CHAPTER VIII

CONSTABLE FLETT’S SUSPICIONS

It was nearly six o’clock in the evening when
George and his companions, who had spent part of the
day looking for the straying stock, rode up to the
Grant homestead through a vast stretch of grain.
This grew on the rich black soil they call “gumbo”
in the West; but here and there a belt of dark-colored
summer fallow checkered the strong green of the wheat
and oats. Though he clung to the one-crop system,
Alan Grant was careful of his land. The fine
brick house and range of smart wooden buildings, the
costly implements, which included a gasoline tractor-plow,
all indicated prosperity, and George recognized that
the rugged-faced man beside him had made a marked
success of his farming.

When the cattle had been secured, Flora Grant welcomed
the new arrivals graciously, and after a while they
sat down to supper with the hired men in a big room.
It was plainly furnished, but there was everything
that comfort demanded, for the happy mean between bareness
and superfluity had been cleverly hit, and George
thought Miss Grant was responsible for this.
He sat beside her at the foot of the long table and
noticed the hired hands’ attitude toward her.
It was respectful, but not diffident. The girl
had no need to assert herself; she was on excellent
terms with the sturdy toilers, who nevertheless cheerfully
submitted to her rule.

When the meal was over, Grant led his guests into
a smaller room, and produced a bag of domestic tobacco.

Flett looked doubtful, though it was obvious that
he wished to remain. He was a young, brown-faced
man, and his smart khaki uniform proclaimed him a
trooper of the Northwest Mounted Police.

“The trouble is that I’m a bit late on
my round already,” he protested.

Page 40

“That’s soon fixed,” said Grant.

He opened a roll-top desk, and wrote a note which
he read out:

“’Constable Flett has been detained in
the neighborhood of this homestead through having
rendered, at my request, valuable assistance in rounding
up a bunch of cattle, scattered in crossing the flooded
river.’”

“Thanks,” said Flett. “That
kind of thing counts when they’re choosing a
corporal.”

Grant turned to George with a smile.

“Keep in with the police, Lansing—­I’ve
known a good supper now and then go a long way.
They may worry you about fireguards and fencing,
but they’ll stand by you when you’re in
trouble, if you treat them right. If it’s
a matter of straying stock, a sick horse, or you don’t
know how to roof a new barn, you have only to send
for the nearest trooper.”

“Aren’t these things a little outside
their duties?” Edgar asked.

The constable grinned.

“Most anything that wants doing badly is right
in our line.”

“Sure,” said Grant. “It’s
not long since Flett went two hundred miles over the
snow with a dog-team to settle a little difference
between an Indian and his wife. Then he once
brought a hurt trapper a fortnight’s journey
on his sledge, sleeping in the snow, in the bitterest
weather. They were quite alone, and the hurt
man was crazy most of the time.”

“Then you’re supposed to look after the
settlers, as well as to keep order?” suggested
Edgar, looking admiringly at the sturdy young constable.

“That’s so,” replied Flett.
“They certainly need it. Last winter we
struck one crowd in a lonely shack up north—­man,
woman, and several children huddled on the floor,
with nothing to eat, and the stove out—­at
forty degrees below. There was a bluff a few
miles off, but they hadn’t a tool of any kind
to cut cordwood with. Took us quite a while
to haul them up some stores, though we made twelve-hour
marches between our camps in the snow. We had
to hustle that trip.”

He paused and resumed:

“Better keep an eye on that bunch of young horses,
Mr. Grant; bring them up nearer the house when the
nights get darker. Those Clydesdales are mighty
fine beasts and prices are high.”

Grant looked astonished.

“I’ve been here a good many years, and
I’ve never lost a horse,” he declared.

“It doesn’t follow you’ll always
be as lucky,” the trooper said pointedly.

“I was told that property is as safe in the
West as it is in England,” Edgar broke in.

“Just so,” remarked the trooper.
“They say that kind of thing. I never
was in the old country, but young mavericks aren’t
the only stock to go missing in Alberta, which isn’t
a long way off. The boys there have their hands
full now and then, and we have three or four of the
worst toughs I’ve struck right in Sage Butte.”

Grant leaned forward on the table, looking steadily
at him.

Page 41

“Hadn’t you better tell me what you have
in your mind?”

“I can’t give you much information, but
we got a hint from Regina to keep our eyes open, and
from things I’ve heard it’s my idea that
now that the boys have nearly stopped the running
of Alberta cattle across the frontier, some of the
toughs they couldn’t track mean to start the
same game farther east. Some of you ranchers
run stock outside the fences, and I guess one could
still find a lonely trail to the American border.”

“Well,” said Grant, “I’m glad
you told me.” He turned to George.
“Be careful, Lansing; you would be an easier
mark.”

They strolled outside; and after a while George joined
Flora, and sauntered away across the grass with her.
It was a clear, still evening, and the air was wonderfully
fresh.

“Though he wouldn’t let me thank him,
I feel I’m seriously indebted to your father,
Miss Grant,” he said. “Our horses
were worn out, and the stock had all scattered when
he turned up with the trooper.”

“I believe he enjoyed the ride, and the night
in the rain,” replied Flora. “You
see, he had once to work very hard here, and now that
things have changed, he finds it rather tame.
He likes to feel he’s still capable of a little
exertion.”

“I shouldn’t consider him an idle man.”

Flora laughed.

“That would be very wrong; but the need for
continual effort and the strain of making ends meet,
with the chance of being ruined by a frozen crop,
have passed. I believe he misses the excitement
of it.”

“Then I gather that he built up this great farm?”

“Yes; from a free quarter-section. He
and my mother started in a two-roomed shack.
They were both from Ontario, but she died several
years ago.” The girl paused. “Sometimes
I think she must have had remarkable courage, I can
remember her as always ready in an emergency, always
tranquil.”

George glanced at her as she stood, finely posed,
looking out across the waste of grass with gravely
steady eyes, and it occurred to him that she resembled
her mother in the respects she had mentioned.
Nevertheless, he felt inclined to wonder how she had
got her grace and refinement. Alan Grant was
forceful and rather primitive.

“Have you spent much of your time here?”
he asked.

“No,” she answered. “My mother
was once a school-teacher, and she must have had ambitious
views for me. When the farm began to prosper,
I was sent to Toronto. After that I went to
Montreal, and finally to England.”

“You must be fond of traveling.”

“Oh,” she said, with some reserve, “I
had thought of taking up a profession.”

“And you have abandoned the idea?”

She looked at him quietly, wondering whether she should
answer.

“I had no alternative,” she said.
“I began to realize it after my mother’s
death. Then my father was badly hurt in an accident
with a team, and I came back. He has nobody
else to look after him, and he is getting on in life.”

Page 42

Her words conveyed no hint of the stern struggle between
duty and inclination, but George guessed it.
This girl, he thought, was one not to give up lightly
the career she had chosen.

Then she changed the subject with a smile.

“I suspect that my father approves of you, perhaps
because of what you are doing with the land.
I think I may say that if you have any little difficulty,
or are short of any implements that would be useful,
you need only come across to us.”

“Thank you,” George responded quietly.

“Mr. West mentioned that you were on a farm
in this country once before. Why did you give
it up?”

“Somebody left me a little money.”

“Then what brought you back?”

She was rather direct, but that is not unusual in
the West, and George was mildly flattered by the interest
she displayed.

“It’s a little difficult to answer.
For one thing, I was beginning to feel that I was
taking life too easily in England, It’s a habit
that grows on one.”

He had no desire to conceal the fact that he had come
out on Sylvia’s behalf—­it never occurred
to him to mention it. He was trying to analyze
the feelings which had rendered the sacrifice he made
in leaving home a little easier.

“I don’t think the dread of acquiring
that habit is common among your people,” Flora
said mischievously. “It doesn’t sound
like a very convincing reason.”

“No,” replied George, with a smile.
“Still, it had some weight. You see,
it isn’t difficult to get lazy and slack, and
I’d done nothing except a little fishing and
shooting for several years. I didn’t want
to sink into a mere lounger about country houses and
clubs. It’s pleasant, but too much of
it is apt to unfit one for anything else.”

“You believe it’s safer, for example,
to haul stovewood home through the Canadian frost
or drive a plow under the scorching sun?”

“Yes; I think I feel something of the kind.”

Flora somewhat astonished him by her scornful laugh.

“You’re wise,” she said. “We
have had sportsmen here from your country, and I’ve
a vivid memory of one or two. One could see by
their coarse faces that they ate and drank too much;
and they seemed determined to avoid discomfort at
any cost. I suppose they could shoot, but they
could neither strip a gun nor carry it on a long day’s
march. The last party thought it needful to take
a teamload of supplies when they went north after
moose. It would have been a catastrophe if they
had missed their dinner.”

“Going without one’s dinner has its inconveniences,”
said George.

“And thinking too much about it has its perils,”
she retorted.

George nodded. He thought he knew what she meant,
and he agreed with it. He could recall companions
who, living for pleasure, had by degrees lost all
zest for the more or less wholesome amusements to
which they had confined their efforts. Some had
become mere club loungers and tattlers; one or two
had sunk into gross indulgence. This had had
its effect on him: he did not wish to grow red-faced,
slothful, and fleshy, as they had done, nor to busy
himself with trivialities until such capacities for
useful work as he possessed had atrophied.

Page 43

“Well,” he said, “nobody could call
this a good country for the pampered loafer.”

Flora smiled, and pointed out across the prairie.
In the foreground it was flecked with crimson flowers;
farther back willow and poplar bluffs stretched in
bluish smears across the sweep of grass that ran on
beyond them toward the vivid glow of color on the
skyline. It was almost beautiful in the soft
evening light, but it conveyed most clearly a sense
of vastness and solitude. The effect was somehow
daunting. One thought of the Arctic winter and
the savage storms that swept the wilds.

“I’ve heard it called hard,” she
said. “It undoubtedly needs hard men;
there is nothing here that can be easily won.
That’s a fact that the people you’re
sending over ought to recognize.”

“They soon discover it when they get out.
When they’ve had a crop hailed or frozen, the
thing becomes obvious.”

“Did you lose one?”

“I did,” George rejoined rather gloomily.
“I’ve a suspicion that if we get much
dry weather and the usual strong winds, I may lose
another. The wheat’s getting badly cut
by driving sand; that’s a trouble we don’t
have to put up with in the old country.”

“I’m sorry,” said Flora; and he
knew she meant it. “But you won’t
be beaten by one bad season?”

“No,” George answered with quiet determination.
“I must make a success of this venture, whatever
it costs.”

She was a little puzzled by his manner, for she did
not think he was addicted to being needlessly emphatic;
but she asked no questions, and soon afterward the
others joined them and they went back to the house.
Early on the following morning, George started homeward
with his cattle, and as they rode slowly through the
barley-grass that fringed the trail, Edgar looked
at him with a smile.

“You spent some time in Miss Grant’s company,”
he remarked. “How did she strike you?”

“I like her. She’s interesting—­I
think that’s the right word for it. Seems
to understand things; talks to you like a man.”

“Just so,” Edgar rejoined, with a laugh.
“She’s a lady I’ve a high opinion
of; in fact, I’m a little afraid of her.
Though I’m nearly as old as she is, she makes
me feel callow. It’s a sensation that’s
new to me.”

“And you’re a man of experience, aren’t
you?”

“I suppose I was rather a favorite at home,”
Edgar owned with humorous modesty. “For
all that, I don’t feel myself quite up to Miss
Grant’s standard.”

“I didn’t notice any assumption of superiority
on her part.”

“Oh, no,” said Edgar. “She
doesn’t require to assume it; the superiority’s
obvious; that’s the trouble. One hesitates
about offering her the small change of compliments
that generally went well at home. If you try
to say something smart, she looks at you as if she
were amused, not at what you said, but at you.
There’s an embarrassing difference between
the things.”

Page 44

“The remedy’s simple. Don’t
try to be smart.”

“You would find that easy,” Edgar retorted.
“Now, in my opinion, Miss Grant is intellectual,
which is more than anybody ever accused you of being,
but I suspect you would make more progress with her
than I could do. Extremes have a way of meeting,
and perhaps it isn’t really curious that your
direct and simple views should now and then recommend
you to a more complex person.”

“I notice a couple of beasts straying yonder,”
George said dryly.

Edgar rode off to drive the animals up to the herd.
George, he thought, was painfully practical; only
such a man could break off the discussion of a girl
like Miss Grant to interest himself in the movements
of a wandering steer. For all that, the beasts
must be turned, and they gave Edgar a hard gallop
through willow scrub and tall grass before he could
head them off and afterward overtake the drove.

CHAPTER IX

GEORGE TURNS REFORMER

George was working in the summer fallow a few days
after his return from Grant’s homestead, when
a man rode across the plowing and pulled up his horse
beside him. He was on the whole a handsome fellow,
well mounted and smartly dressed, but there was a
hint of hardness in his expression. George recognized
him as the landlord of a hotel at the settlement.

“I forgot,” the other rejoined.
“You’re the fellow Jake Gillet had the
trouble with. Beat him down on the price, didn’t
you? He’s a bad man to bluff.”

“The point that concerned me was that he asked
a good deal more than his work was worth.”

The man looked at George curiously.

“That’s quite possible, but you might
have let him down more gently than you did.
As a newcomer, you don’t want to kick too much
or run up against things other folks put up with.”

George wondered where the hint he had been given led.

“I rode over to bring this paper for you to
sign,” the man went on.

Glancing through it, George saw that it was a petition
against any curtailment of the licenses at Sage Butte,
and a testimonial to the excellent manner in which
the Sachem Hotel was conducted by its owner, Oliver
Beamish. George had only once entered the place,
but it had struck him as being badly kept and frequented
by rather undesirable customers.

“Some fool temperance folks are starting a campaign—­want
to shut the hotels,” his visitor explained.
“You’ll put your name to this.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse
me, Mr. Beamish. I can’t form an opinion;
I haven’t heard the other side yet.”

“Do you want to hear them? Do you like
that kind of talk?”

George smiled, though he was not favorably impressed
by the man. His tone was too dictatorial; George
expected civility when asked a favor.

Page 45

“After all,” he said, “it would
only be fair.”

“Then you won’t sign?”

“No.”

Beamish sat silent a moment or two, regarding George
steadily.

“One name more or less doesn’t matter
much, but I’ll own that the opinion of you farmers
who use my hotel as a stopping-place counts with the
authorities,” he told him. “I’ve
got quite a few signatures. You want to remember
that it won’t pay you to go against the general
wish.”

He rode away, and George thought no more of the matter
for several days. Then as he was riding home
with Edgar from a visit to a neighbor who had a team
to sell, they stopped to rest a few minutes in the
shade of a poplar bluff. It was fiercely hot
on the prairie, but the wood was dim and cool, and
George followed Edgar through it in search of saskatoons.
The red berries were plentiful, and they had gone
farther than they intended when George stopped waist-deep
in the grass of a dry sloo, where shallow water had
lain in the spring. He nearly fell over something
large and hard. Stooping down, he saw with some
surprise that it was a wooden case.

“I wonder what’s in it?” he said.

“Bottles,” reported Edgar, pulling up
a board of the lid. “One of the cure-everything
tonics, according to the labels. It strikes me
as a curious place to leave it in.”

George carefully looked about. He could distinguish
a faint track, where the grasses had been disturbed,
running straight across the sloo past the spot he
occupied; but he thought that the person who had made
the track had endeavored to leave as little mark as
possible. Then he glanced out between the poplar
trunks across the sunlit prairie. There was
not a house on it; scarcely a clump of timber broke
its even surface. The bluff was very lonely;
and George remembered that a trail which ran near
by led to an Indian reservation some distance to the
north. While he considered, Edgar broke in:

“As neither of us requires a pick-me-up, it
might be better to leave the thing where it is.”

“That,” replied George, “is my own
idea.”

Edgar looked thoughtful.

“The case didn’t come here by accident;
and one wouldn’t imagine that tonics are in
great demand in this locality. I have, however,
heard the liquor laws denounced; and as a rule it’s
wise to leave matters that don’t concern you
severely alone.”

“Just so,” said George. “We’ll
get on again, if you have had enough berries.”

On reaching the homestead, they found a note from
Miss Grant inviting them to come over in the evening;
and both were glad to comply with it. When they
arrived, the girl led them into a room where a lady
of middle-age and a young man in clerical attire were
sitting with her father.

Page 46

“Mrs. Nelson has come over from Sage Butte on
a mission,” she said, when she presented them.
“Mr. Hardie, who is the Methodist minister
there, is anxious to meet you.”

The lady was short and slight in figure but was marked
by a most resolute expression.

“Then you’ll have to become one.
How long is it since you indulged in drink?”

George felt a little embarrassed, but Edgar, seeing
Flora’s smile and the twinkle in her father’s
eyes, hastily came to his rescue.

“Nearly a month, to my knowledge. That
is, if you don’t object to strong green tea,
consumed in large quantities.”

“One should practise moderation in everything.
Everything!”

“It has struck me,” said Edgar thoughtfully,
“that moderation is now and then desirable in
temperance reform.”

Mrs. Nelson fixed her eyes on him with a severe expression.

“Are you a scoffer?”

“No,” said Edgar; “as a matter of
fact, I’m open to conviction, especially if
you intend to reform the Butte. In my opinion,
it needs it.”

“Well,” responded the lady, “you’re
a signature, anyway; and we want as many as we can
get. But we’ll proceed to business.
Will you state our views, Mr. Hardie?”

The man began quietly, and George was favorably impressed
by him. He had a pleasant, sun-burned face,
and a well-knit but rather thin figure, which suggested
that he was accustomed to physical exertion.
As he could not afford a horse, he made long rounds
on foot to visit his scattered congregation, under
scorching sun and in the stinging frost.

“There are four churches in Sage Butte, but
I sometimes fear that most of the good they do is
undone in the pool room and the saloons,” he
said. “Of the latter, one cannot, perhaps,
strongly object to the Queen’s.”

“One should always object to a saloon,”
Mrs. Nelson corrected him.

Hardie smiled good-humoredly.

“After all, the other’s the more pressing
evil. There’s no doubt about the unfortunate
influence of the Sachem.”

“That’s so,” Grant agreed.
“When I first came out from Ontario, there
wasn’t a loafer in the town. When the boys
were through with their day’s job, they had
a quiet talk and smoke and went to bed; they came
here to work. Now the Sachem bar’s full
of slouchers every night, and quite a few of them
don’t do anything worth speaking of in the daytime,
except make trouble for decent folks. If the
boys try to put the screw on a farmer at harvest or
when he has extra wheat to haul, you’ll find
they hatched the mischief at Beamish’s saloon.
But I’ve no use for giving those fellows tracts
with warning pictures.”

“That,” said Mrs. Nelson, “is by
no means what we intend to do.”

Page 47

“I’m afraid that admonition hasn’t
had much effect, and I agree with Mr. Grant that the
Sachem is a gathering place for doubtful characters,”
Hardie went on. “What’s worse, I’ve
reasons for supposing that Beamish gets some of them
to help him in supplying the Indians on the reservation
with liquor.”

This was a serious offense, and there was a pause,
during which Edgar glanced meaningly at George.
Then he made a pertinent remark.

“Four churches to two saloons is pretty long
odds. Why do you think it needful to call in
the farmers?”

Hardie looked troubled, but he showed that he was
honest.

“The churches are thinly attended; I’m
the only resident clergyman, and I’m sorry I
must confess that some of our people are indifferent:
reluctant, or perhaps half afraid, to interfere.
They want a clear lead; if we could get a big determined
meeting it might decide the waverers.”

“Then you’re not sure of winning?”
asked Grant.

“No,” replied Hardie. “There’ll
be strong and well-managed opposition; in fact, we
have nearly everything against us. I’ve
been urged to wait, but the evil’s increasing;
those against us are growing stronger.”

“If you lose, you and your friends will find
the Butte pretty hot. But you feel you have
a chance, a fighting chance, and you mean to take it?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m with you,"’ Grant declared
with a grim smile. “Don’t mistake
me: I take my glass of lager when I feel like
it—­there’s some right here in the
house—­but, if it’s needful, I can
do without. I’m not going into this thing
to help you in preaching to whisky-tanks and toughs—­it’s
the law I’m standing for. If what you suspect
is going on, we’ll soon have our colts rebranded
and our calves missing. We have got to clean
out Beamish’s crowd.”

“Thanks,” said Hardie, with keen satisfaction.

He turned to George.

“I’d be glad of your support, Mr. Lansing.”

George sat silent a moment or two while Flora watched
him. Then he said quietly:

“My position’s much the same as Mr. Grant’s—­I
can do without. After what you have said about
the Sachem, I’ll join you.”

“And you?” Hardie asked Edgar.

The lad laughed.

“I follow my leader. The loungers about
the Sachem weren’t civil to me; said unpleasant
things about my appearance and my English clothes.
To help to make them abstainers strikes me as a happy
thought.”

Flora glanced at him in amused reproof, and Hardie
turned to Grant.

“What about your hired men?”

“Count them in; they go with me. If you
have brought any memorial along, I’ll see they
sign it.”

Page 48

“I don’t think a leader’s often
in that position, Mr. West; and considering what I’m
up against, I can’t refuse any support that’s
offered me. It’s one reason why I’ve
taken yours.”

“Now that I’ve joined you, I’d better
mention a little discovery West and I made this afternoon,”
said George.

Hardie’s expression grew eager as he listened.

“It’s certainly liquor—­for
the reservation Indians,” he broke out.
“If we can fix the thing on Beamish—­I
haven’t a doubt that he’s responsible—­we
can close the Sachem.”

“Then we had better decide how it’s to
be done,” Grant said curtly.

He ruled out several suggestions, and finally said:

“I expect the case will be sent for to-night,
and we want two witnesses who’ll lie by in the
sloo. One of them ought to be a farmer; but we’ll
see about that. Guess your part is to find out
how the liquor left the Butte, Mr. Hardie. What
do you think of the plan, ma’am?”

“I leave it to you,” said Mrs. Nelson,
half reluctantly. “But be warned—­if
the men can’t close the Sachem, the women of
Sage Butte will undertake the thing.”

“Then we have only to decide who is to watch
the bluff,” said Hardie.

“As I first mentioned the matter, I’ll
go, for one,” George volunteered.

“You’re the right man,” declared
Grant. “As a newcomer who’s never
been mixed up with local affairs, your word would carry
more weight with the court. The opposition couldn’t
make you out a partizan. But you want to recognize
what you’re doing—­after this, you’ll
find yourself up against all the Sachem toughs.
It’s quite likely they’ll make trouble
for you.”

“I wonder whether such reasons count for much
with Mr. Lansing?” Flora said suggestively.

George made no reply, but Edgar laughed.

“They don’t, Miss Grant; you can set your
mind at rest on that. You don’t seem curious
whether they count with me.”

“You’re not going,” Grant told him.
“We must have two men who can be relied on,
and I can put my hand on another who’s younger
and a little more wiry than I am.” He
turned to George. “What you have to do
is to lie close in the sloo grass until the fellows
come for the liquor, when you’ll follow them
to the reservation, without their seeing you.
Then you’ll ride up and make sure you would
know them again. They should get there soon
after daylight, as they won’t strike the bluff
until it’s dark, but there’s thick brush
in the ravine the trail follows for the last few miles.
It won’t matter if they light out, because Flett
will pick up their trail. I’ll send for
him right off, but he could hardly get through before
morning.”

Page 49

The party broke up shortly afterward, and George rode
home, wondering why he had allowed himself to become
involved in what might prove to be a troublesome matter.
His ideas on the subject were not very clear, but
he felt that Flora Grant had expected him to take a
part. Then he had been impressed in Hardie’s
favor; the man was in earnest, ready to court popular
hostility, but he was nevertheless genial and free
from dogmatic narrow-mindedness. Behind all
this, there was in George a detestation of vicious
idleness and indulgence, and a respect for right and
order. Since he had been warned that the badly-kept
hotel sheltered a gang of loafers plotting mischief
and willing to prey upon men who toiled strenuously,
he was ready for an attempt to turn them out.
He agreed with Grant: the gang must be put down.

CHAPTER X

THE LIQUOR-RUNNERS

Dusk was closing in when George and the hired man
whom Grant had sent with him reached the bluff and
tethered their horses where they would be hidden among
the trees. This done, George stood still for
a few moments, looking about. A dark, cloud-barred
sky hung over the prairie, which was fast fading into
dimness; the wood looked desolate and forbidding in
the dying light. He did not think any one could
have seen him and his companion enter it. Then
he and the man floundered through the undergrowth
until they reached the sloo, where they hid themselves
among the grass at some distance from the case, which
had not been removed.

There was no moon, and a fresh breeze swept through
the wood, waking eerie sounds and sharp rustlings
among the trees. Once or twice George started,
imagining that somebody was creeping through the bushes
behind him, but he was glad of the confused sounds,
because they would cover his movements when the time
for action came. His companion, a teamster born
on the prairie, lay beside him amid the tall harsh
grass that swayed to and fro with a curious dry clashing.
He broke into a soft laugh when George suddenly raised
his head.

“Only a cottontail hustling through the brush.
Whoever’s coming will strike the bluff on the
other side,” he said. “Night’s
kind of wild; pity it won’t rain. Crops
on light soil are getting badly cut.”

George glanced up at the patch of sky above the dark
mass of trees. Black and threatening clouds drove
across it; but during the past few weeks he had watched
them roll up from the west a little after noon almost
every day. For a while, they shadowed the prairie,
promising the deluge he eagerly longed for; and then,
toward evening, they cleared away, and pitiless sunshine
once more scorched the plain. Grain grown upon
the stiff black loam withstood the drought, but the
light soil of the Marston farm was lifted by the wind,
and the sharp sand in it abraded the tender stalks.
It might cut them through if the dry weather and
strong breeze continued; and then the crop which was
to cover his first expenses would yield him nothing.

Page 50

“Yes,” he returned moodily. “It
looks as if it couldn’t rain. We ought
to go in more for stock-raising; it’s safer.”

“Costs quite a pile to start with, and the ranchers
farther west certainly have their troubles.
We had a good many calves missing, and now and then
prime steers driven off, when I was range-riding.”

“I haven’t heard of any cattle-stealing
about here.”

“No,” said the teamster. “Still,
I guess we may come to it; there are more toughs about
the settlement than there used to be. Indians
have been pretty good, but I’ve known them make
lots of trouble in other districts by killing beasts
for meat and picking up stray horses. But that
was where they had mean whites willing to trade with
them.”

George considered this. It had struck him that
the morality of the country had not improved since
he had last visited it; though this was not surprising
in view of the swarm of immigrants that were pouring
in. Grant had pithily said that once upon a time
the boys had come there to work; but it now looked
as if a certain proportion had arrived on the prairie
because nobody could tolerate them at home. Flett
and the Methodist preacher seemed convinced that there
were a number of these undesirables hanging about
Sage Butte, ready for mischief.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose the
first thing to be done is to stop this liquor-running.”

They had no further conversation for another hour.
The poplars rustled behind them and the grass rippled
and clashed, but now and then the breeze died away
for a few moments, and there was a curious and almost
disconcerting stillness. At last, in one of these
intervals, the Canadian, partly rising, lifted his
hand.

“Listen!” he said. “Guess
I hear a team.”

A low rhythmic drumming that suggested the beat of
hoofs rose from the waste, but it was lost as the
branches rattled and the long grass swayed noisily
before a rush of breeze. George thought the sound
had come from somewhere half a mile away.

“If they’re Indians, would they bring
a wagon?” he asked.

“It’s quite likely. Some of the
bucks keep smart teams; they do a little rough farming
on the reservation. It would look as if they
were going for sloo hay, if anybody saw them.”

George waited in silence, wishing he could hear the
thud of hoofs again. It was slightly daunting
to lie still and wonder where the men were.
It is never very dark in summer on the western prairie,
and George could see across the sloo, but there was
no movement that the wind would not account for among
the black trees that shut it in. Several minutes
passed, and George looked around again with strained
attention.

Suddenly a dim figure emerged from the gloom.
Another followed it, but they made no sound that
could be heard through the rustle of the leaves, and
George felt his heart beat and his nerves tingle as
he watched them flit, half seen, through the grass.
Then one of the shadowy objects stooped, lifting
something, and they went back as noiselessly as they
had come. In a few more moments they had vanished,
and the branches about them clashed in a rush of wind.
It died away, and there was no sound or sign of human
presence in all the silent wood. George, glad
that the strain was over, was about to rise, but his
companion laid a hand on his arm.

Page 51

“Give ’em time to get clear. We
don’t want to come up until there’s light
enough to swear to them or they make the reservation.”

They waited several minutes, and then, traversing
the wood, found their horses and mounted. The
grass stretched away, blurred and shadowy, and though
they could see nothing that moved upon it, a beat of
hoofs came softly back to them.

“Wind’s bringing the sound,” said
the teamster. “Guess they won’t hear
us.”

They rode out into the gray obscurity, losing the
sound now and then. They had gone several leagues
when they came to the edge of a dark bluff.
Drawing bridle, they sat and listened, until the teamster
broke the silence.

“There’s a trail runs through; we’ll
try it.”

The trail was difficult to find and bad to follow,
for long grass and willow-scrub partly covered it,
and in spite of their caution the men made a good
deal of noise. That, however, seemed of less
importance, for they could hear nothing ahead, and
George looked about carefully as they crossed a more
open space. The trees were getting blacker and
more distinct; he could see their tops clearly against
the sky, and guessed that dawn was near. How
far it was to the reservation he did not know, but
there would be light enough in another hour to see
the men who had carried off the liquor. Then
he began to wonder where the latter were, for there
was now no sign of them.

Suddenly, when the wind dropped for a moment, a faint
rattle of wheels reached them from the depths of the
wood, and the teamster raised his hand.

“Pretty close,” he said. “Come
on as cautious as you can. The reservation’s
not far away, and we don’t want them to get there
much before us.”

They rode a little more slowly; but when the rattle
of wheels and thud of hoofs grew sharply distinct
in another lull, the man struck his horse.

“They’ve heard us!” he cried.
“We’ve got to run them down!”

George urged his beast, and there was a crackle of
brush about him as the black trees streamed past.
The thrill of the pursuit possessed him; after weeks
of patient labor, he felt the exhilaration of the wild
night ride. The trail, he knew, was riddled here
and there with gopher holes and partly grown with
brush that might bring his horse down, but this did
not count. He was glad, however, that the teamster
was behind him, because he could see the dim gap ahead
between the mass of trees, and he thought that it
was rapidly becoming less shadowy. The sound
of hoofs and wheels was growing louder; they were
coming up with the fugitives.

“Keep them on the run!” gasped the man
behind. “If one of us gets thrown, the
other fellow will hold right on!”

A few minutes later George’s horse plunged with
a crash through a break.

“We’re off the trail!” his companion
cried. “Guess it switches round a sloo!”

They floundered through crackling brushwood until
they struck the track, and afterward rode furiously
to make up the lost time, with the sound of wheels
leading them on. Then in the gap before them
they saw what seemed to be the back of a wagon which,
to George’s surprise, suddenly disappeared.
The next moment a figure carrying something crossed
the trail.

Page 52

“To the right!” cried the teamster.

George did not think his companion had seen the man.
He rode after him into the brush, and saw the fellow
hurrying through it with a load in his arms.
The man looked around. George could dimly make
out his dark face; and his figure was almost clear.
He was an Indian and unusually tall. Then he
plunged into a screen of bushes, and George, riding
savagely, drove his horse at the obstacle.

He heard the twigs snap beneath him, a drooping branch
struck him hard; and then he gasped with horror.
In front there opened up a deep black rift in which
appeared the tops of trees. Seeing it was too
late to pull up, he shook his feet clear of the stirrups.
He felt the horse plunge down, there was a shock,
and he was flung violently from the saddle.
He struck a precipitous slope and rolled down it, clutching
at twigs, which broke, and grass, until he felt a
violent blow on his head. After that he knew
nothing.

It was broad daylight when consciousness returned,
and he found himself lying half-way down a steep declivity.
At the foot of it tall reeds and sedges indicated
the presence of water, and he realized that he had
fallen into a ravine. There was a small tree
near by, against which he supposed he had struck his
head; but somewhat to his astonishment he could not
see his horse. It had apparently escaped better
than he had, for he felt dizzy and shaky and averse
to making an effort to get up, though he did not think
he had broken any bones.

After a while he fumbled for his pipe and found some
difficulty in lighting it, but he persevered, and
lay quiet while he smoked it out. The sunlight
was creeping down the gully, it was getting pleasantly
warm, and George felt dull and lethargic. Some
time had passed when he heard the teamster’s
shout and saw the man scrambling down the side of
the ravine.

The other looked at him searchingly. His eyes
were heavy and his face had lost its usual color.

“You want to get back to your homestead and
lie quiet a while. I didn’t miss you until
I’d got out of the bluff, and then the wagon
was close ahead.”

“How was it you avoided falling in after me?”

“That’s easy understood in the daylight.
The trail twists sharply and runs along the edge
of the ravine. I stuck to it; instead of turning,
you went straight on.”

“Yes,” said George, and mentioned having
seen the Indian who left the wagon. Then he
asked: “But what about the fellow you followed?”

His companion hesitated.

Page 53

“Guess I’ve been badly fooled. I
came up with him outside the bluff when it was getting
light, and he stopped his team. Said he was
quietly driving home when he heard somebody riding
after him, and as he’d once been roughly handled
by mean whites, he tried to get away. Then as
I didn’t know what to do, I allowed I’d
keep him in sight until Constable Flett turned up,
and by and by we came to a deserted shack. There’s
a well in the bluff behind it, and the buck said his
team wanted a drink; they certainly looked a bit played
out, and my mare was thirsty. He found an old
bucket and asked me to fill it.”

“You didn’t leave him with the horses!”

“No, sir; but what I did was most as foolish.
I let him go and he didn’t come back.
See how I was fixed? If I’d gone into
the bluff to look for him, he might have slipped out
and driven off, so I stood by the beasts quite a while.
It strikes me that team wasn’t his. At
last Flett rode up with another trooper. It
seems Steve met them on the trail.”

George nodded. Flett had arrived before he was
expected, because Grant’s messenger had been
saved a long ride to his station.

“Well?” he said.

“When we couldn’t find the buck, Flett
sent his partner off to pick up his trail, and then
said we’d better take the team along and look
for you. I left where the trail forks; he was
to wait a bit. Now, do you think you can get
up?”

George did so, and managed with some assistance to
climb the slope, where his companion left him and
went off for the constable. Flett arrived presently,
and made George tell his story.

“The thing’s quite plain,” he said.
“The fellow you saw jumped off with the liquor,
though one wouldn’t expect him to carry it far.
You say he was tall; did he walk a little lame?”

“It was too dark to tell. I’m inclined
to think I would know him again.”

“Well,” explained Flett, “this is
the kind of thing Little Ax is likely to have a hand
in, and he’s the tallest buck in the crowd.
I’ll stick to the team until we come across
somebody who knows its owner. The first thing
we have to do is to find that case of liquor.”

Half an hour later the teamster came back carrying
it, and set it down before the constable with a grin.

“Guess it’s your duty to see what’s
in these bottles,” he remarked. “Shall
I get one out?”

“You needn’t; I’ve a pretty good
idea,” answered Flett; adding meaningly, “besides,
it’s the kind of stuff a white man can’t
drink.” Then he turned to George.
“I’d better take you home. You look
kind of shaky.”

“What about my horse?” George asked.

“Guess he’s made for home,” said
the teamster. “I struck his trail, and
it led right out of the woods.”

George got into the wagon with some trouble, and the
teamster rode beside it when they set off.

“You haven’t much to put before a court,”
he said to Flett.

Page 54

“No,” the constable replied thoughtfully.
“I’m not sure our people will take this
matter up; anyway, it looks as if we could only fix
it on the Indians. This is what comes of you
folks fooling things, instead of leaving them to us.”

“The police certainly like a conviction,”
rejoined the teamster, grinning. “They
feel real bad when the court lets a fellow off; seem
to think that’s their business. Guess it’s
why a few of their prisoners escape.”

Flett ignored this, and the teamster turned to George.

“I’ll tell you what once happened to me.
I was working for a blamed hard boss, and it doesn’t
matter why I quit without getting my wages out of
him, but he wasn’t feeling good when I lit out
behind a freight-car. By bad luck, there was
a trooper handy when a train-hand found me at a lonely
side-track. Well, that policeman didn’t
know what to do with me. It was quite a way
to the nearest guard-room; they don’t get medals
for corraling a man who’s only stolen a ride,
and he had to watch out for some cattle rustlers;
so wherever he went I had to go along with him.
We got quite friendly, and one night he said to me,
’There’s a freight that stops here nearly
due. I’ll go to sleep while you get out
on her.’”

The teamster paused and added with a laugh:

“That’s what I did, and I’d be mighty
glad to set the drinks up if I ever meet that man
off duty. We’d both have a full-size jag
on before we quit.”

CHAPTER XI

DIPLOMACY

Flett left the team at George’s homestead.
Bidding him take good care of it, and borrowing a
fresh team, he drove away with the wagon. When
he reached Sage Butte it was getting dusk. He
hitched the horses outside of the better of the two
hotels and entered in search of food, as he had still
a long ride before him. Supper had long been
finished, and Flett was kept waiting for some time,
but he now and then glanced at the wagon. It
was dark when he drove away, after seeing that the
case lay where he had left it, and he had reached his
post before he made a startling discovery. When
he carried the case into the lamplight, it looked
smaller, and on hastily opening it he found it was
filled with soil!

He sat down and thought; though on the surface the
matter was clear—­he had been cleverly outwitted
by somebody who had exchanged the case while he got
his meal. This, as he reflected, was not the
kind of thing for which a constable got promoted;
but there were other points that required attention.
The substitution had not been effected by anybody
connected with the Queen’s; it was, he suspected,
the work of some of the frequenters of the Sachem;
and he and his superiors had to contend with a well-organized
gang. News of what had happened in the bluff
had obviously been transmitted to the settlement while
he had rested at Lansing’s homestead.
He had, however, made a long journey, and as he would
have to ride on and report the matter to his sergeant
in the morning, he went to sleep.

Page 55

The next day George was setting out on a visit to
Grant when a man rode up and asked for the team.

“Flett can’t get over, but he wants the
horses at the post, so as to have them handy if he
finds anybody who can recognize them,” he explained.

That sounded plausible, but George hesitated.
The animals would be of service as a clue to their
owner and a proof of his complicity in the affair.
As they had not been identified, it would embarrass
the police if they were missing.

“I can only hand them over to a constable, unless
you have brought a note from Flett,” he replied.

“Then, as I haven’t one, you’ll
beat me out of a day’s pay, and make Flett mighty
mad. Do you think he’d get anybody who
might know the team to waste a day riding out to your
place? Guess the folks round here are too busy,
and they’d be glad of the excuse that it was
so far. They won’t want to mix themselves
up in this thing.”

George could find no fault with this reasoning, but
he thought the fellow was a little too eager to secure
the horses.

“Well,” he said, “as I’m going
to call on Mr. Grant, I’ll see what he has to
say. If I’m not back in time, Mr. West
will give you supper.”

“Then Grant’s standing in with you and
the temperance folks?”

It struck George that he had been incautious, but
he could not determine whether the man had blundered
or not. His question suggested some knowledge
of the situation, but an accomplice of the offenders
would, no doubt, have heard of the part Grant’s
hired man had played.

“I don’t see how that concerns you,”
he replied. “You’ll have to wait
until I return if you want the team.”

He rode on, but he had not gone far when he met Beamish,
of the Sachem.

“I was coming over to see you,” the man
told him. “You bought that young Hereford
bull of Broughton’s, didn’t you?”

George was surprised at the question, but he answered
that he had done so.

He named a price that struck George as being in excess
of the animal’s value; and then explained:

“I’ve seen him once or twice before he
fell into Broughton’s hands; the imported Red
Rover strain is marked in him, and a friend of mine,
who’s going in for Herefords, told me not to
stick at a few dollars if I could pick up such a bull.”

This was plausible, but not altogether satisfactory,
and George, reflecting that a buyer does not really
praise what he means to purchase, imagined that there
was something behind it.

“I’m not likely to get a better bid,”
he admitted. “But I must ask if the transaction
would be complete? Would you expect anything
further from me in return?”

Beamish regarded him keenly, with a faint smile.

Page 56

“Well,” he said, “I certainly want
the bull, but you seem to understand. Leave
it at that; I’m offering to treat you pretty
liberally.”

“So as to prevent my assisting Flett in any
way or taking a part in Hardie’s campaign?”

“I wouldn’t consider it the square thing
for you to do,” Beamish returned quietly.

George thought of the man who was waiting at the homestead
for the team. It was obvious that an attempt
was being made to buy him, and he strongly resented
it.

“Then I can only tell you that I won’t
make this deal. That’s the end of the
matter.”

Beamish nodded and started his horse, but he looked
back as he rode off.

“Well,” he called, in a meaning tone,
“you may be sorry.”

George rode on to Grant’s homestead, and finding
him at work in the fallow, told him what had passed.

“I fail to see why they’re so eager to
get hold of me,” he concluded.

Grant, sitting in the saddle of the big plow, thoughtfully
filled his pipe.

“Of course,” he said, “it wasn’t
a coincidence that Beamish came over soon after the
fellow turned up for the horses. It would have
been worth while buying the bull if you had let them
go—­especially as I believe it’s right
about a friend of his wanting one—­and nobody
could have blamed you for selling. The fact
is, your position counts. The bluff would make
a handy place for a depot, and, while there’s
nobody else near, you command the trails to it and
the reservation. Nobody could get by from the
settlement without being seen, unless they made a
big round, if you watched out.”

“I’m beginning to understand. What
you say implies that they’re doing a good trade.”

“That’s so,” Grant assented.
“I wouldn’t have believed it was so big
before Hardie put me on the track and I began to look
around. But you want to remember that what you’re
doing may cost you something. I’m your
nearest neighbor, you’re running stock that are
often out of sight, and you’re up against a
determined crowd.”

“It’s true,” George admitted.
“Still, I can’t back out.”

Grant cast a keen, approving glance at him.
George sat quietly in his saddle with a smile on his
brown face; his pose was easy but virile: there
was a stamp of refinement and old country breeding
upon him. His eyes were suggestively steady;
his skin was clear; he looked forceful in an unemphatic
manner. The farmer was to some extent prejudiced
against the type, but he could make exceptions.
He had liked Lansing from the beginning, and he knew
that he could work.

“No,” he said; “I guess you’re
not that kind of man. But won’t you get
down and go along to the house? Flora will be
glad to talk with you, and I’ll be in for supper
soon.”

George thanked him, and did as he suggested.
He was beginning to find pleasure in the conversation
of Flora Grant.

It was two hours later when he took his leave and
the farmer went out with him.

Page 57

“I don’t know what Hardie’s doing,
but I’ve an idea that Mrs. Nelson means to make
some move at the Farmers’ Club fair,” he
said. “She’s a mighty determined
and enterprising woman. If you can spare the
time, you’d better ride in and see what’s
going on.”

On reaching home, George was not surprised to find
that the man who had come for the horses had departed
without waiting for his answer. The next day
he received an intimation that the annual exhibition
of the Sage Butte Farmers’ Club would shortly
be held; and one morning a fortnight later he and
Edgar rode off to the settlement.

They found the little town rudely decorated with flags
and arches of poplar boughs, and a good-humored crowd
assembled. The one-sided street that faced the
track was lined with buggies, wagons, and a few automobiles;
horses and two or three yoke of oxen were tethered
outside the overfull livery stables.

A strong breeze drove blinding dust-clouds through
the place, but even in the wind the sunshine was scorching.

As he strolled toward the fair-ground, George became
interested in the crowd. It was largely composed
of small farmers, and almost without exception they
and their wives were smartly attired; they looked
contented and prosperous. Mingling with them
were teamsters, many as neatly dressed as their masters,
though some wore blue-jean and saffron-colored shirts;
and there were railroad-hands, mechanics, and store-keepers.
All of them were cheerful; a few good years, free
from harvest frost and blight, had made a marked improvement
in everybody’s lot.

Yet, there was another side to the picture.
Odd groups of loungers indulged in scurrilous jests;
hoarse laughter and an occasional angry uproar issued
from the hotels, and shabby men with hard faces slouched
about the veranda of one. George noticed this,
but he presently reached the fair-ground, where he
inspected the animals and implements; and then, toward
supper-time, he strolled back with Grant. They
were walking up one of the side-streets when shouts
broke out behind them.

George looked around but for a moment he could see
very little through the cloud of dust that swept the
street. When it blew away it revealed a row
of women advancing two by two along the plank sidewalk.
They were of different ages and stations in life,
but they all came on as if with a fixed purpose, and
they had resolute faces. Mrs. Nelson led them,
carrying a riding quirt, and though George was not
astonished to see her, he started when he noticed
Flora Grant near the end of the procession.
She was paler than usual, and she walked quietly with
a rather strained expression.

Grant touched George’s shoulder.

“This is certainly more than I figured on,”
he said; “but I guess there’s no use in
my objecting. Now she’s started, she’ll
go through with it. They’re making for
the Sachem; we had better go along.”

Shortly afterward, a gathering crowd blocked the street.

Page 58

“Speech!” somebody cried; and there was
ironical applause.

Mrs. Nelson raised her hand, and when the procession
stopped, she looked sternly at the men before her.

“No,” she answered; “speeches are
wasted on such folks; we’re here to act!”

She waved the quirt commandingly.

“Let us pass!”

She was obeyed. The women moved on; and George
and Grant managed to enter the hotel behind them before
the throng closed in. The big general-room was
hot and its atmosphere almost intolerably foul; the
bar, which opened off it, was shadowy, and the crowded
figures of lounging men showed dimly through thick
cigar smoke. The hum of their voices died away
and there was a curious silence as the women came in.
Edging forward, George saw Beamish leaning on his counter,
looking quietly self-possessed and very dapper in
his white shirt and well-cut clothes.

“Well,” he said, “what do you ladies
want with me?”

Their leader faced him, a small and yet commanding
figure, with an imperious expression and sparkling
eyes.

“You got a notice that from supper-time this
bar must be shut!”

“I did, ma’am. It was signed by
you. Now, so far as I know, the magistrates
are the only people who can close my hotel.”

“That’s so!” shouted somebody; and
there were confused murmurs and harsh laughter which
suggested that some of the loungers were not quite
sober.

“Fire them out!” cried another man.
“Guess this is why Nelson gets cold potatoes
for his supper. Ought to be at home mending socks
or washing their men’s clothes.”

The lady turned sternly on the last speaker.

“Yes,” she said; “that’s the
kind of idea you would hold. It’s getting
played out now.”

George was conscious of slight amusement. The
affair had its humorous side, and, though he was ready
to interfere if the women were roughly handled, he
did not think they ran any serious risk. Beamish
looked capable of dealing with the situation.

“You don’t require to butt in, boys,”
he said. “Leave me to talk to these ladies;
I guess their intentions are good.” He
bowed to Mrs. Nelson. “You can go on,
ma’am.”

“I’ve only this to say—­you
must close your bar right now!”

“Suppose I’m not willing? It will
mean a big loss to me.”

“That,” answered Mrs. Nelson firmly, “doesn’t
count; the bigger the loss, the better. You
will stop the sale of drink until to-morrow, or take
the consequences.”

Another woman, who looked careworn and haggard, and
was shabbily dressed, stood forward.

“We and the children have borne enough!”
she broke out. “We have to save the cord-wood
in the bitter cold; we have to send the kiddies out
in old, thin clothes, while the money that would make
home worth living in goes into your register.
Where are the boys—­our husbands and sons—­who
once held steady jobs and did good work?” She
raised an accusing hand, with despair in her pinched
face. “Oh! I needn’t tell
you—­they’re rebranding farmers’
calves or hiding from the police! Don’t
you know of one who walked to his death through the
big trestle, dazed with liquor? For these things
the men who tempted them will have to answer!”

Page 59

“True, but not quite to the point,” Mrs.
Nelson interposed. “We have found remonstrance
useless; the time for words has passed. This
fellow has had his warning; we’re waiting for
him to comply with it.”

There was an uproar outside from the crowd that was
struggling to get in and demanding to be told what
was going on; but Beamish made a sign of resignation.

“It looks as if I couldn’t refuse you;
and anyway it wouldn’t be polite.”
He turned to his customers.

“Boys, it’s not my fault, but you’ll
get no more drinks to-day. For all that, I must
make a point of asking you to treat these ladies with
respect.”

“Smart,” Grant remarked to George.
“He has handled the thing right. This
means trouble for Hardie.”

Then Beamish once more addressed the intruders.

“Now that I’ve given in, has it struck
you that there isn’t much use in closing my
place if you leave the Queen’s open?”

“We’ll shut them both!” Mrs. Nelson
declared.

“Then there’s just another point—­I’ve
folks who have driven a long way, staying the night
with me, and there’s quite a crowd coming in
for supper. How am I to treat them?”

“They can have all they want to eat,”
Mrs. Nelson told him graciously; “but no liquor.”

“I can’t refuse to supply them without
a reason. What am I to say?”

“Tell them that the Women’s Reform League
has compelled you to close your bar.”

“And I’ve been given the orders by their
acknowledged secretary?”

“Yes. I’m proud of being their leader,
and of the duty I’ve discharged.”

Beamish turned to his customers.

“You’ll remember what she has told me,
boys!”

Grant drew George away.

“She walked right into the trap; you couldn’t
have stopped her. I’m sorry for Hardie.
But we may as well get out now; there’ll be
no trouble.”

The street was blocked when the women left, but a
passage was made for them; and, followed by everybody
in the settlement, they proceeded to the other hotel,
whose proprietor capitulated. Then Mrs. Nelson
made a speech, in which she pointed out that for once
the festival would not be marked by the orgies which
had on previous occasions disgraced the town.
Her words, by no means conciliatory, and her aggressive
air provoked the crowd, which had, for the most part,
watched the proceedings with amusement. There
were cries of indignant dissent, angry shouts, and
the throng began to close in upon the speaker.
Then there was sudden silence, and the concourse
split apart. Into the gap rode a slim young
man in khaki, with a wide hat of the same color, who
pulled up and sat looking at the people with his hand
on his hip. George recognized him as the constable
who shared the extensive beat with Flett.

“Now,” he said good-humoredly, “what’s
all this fuss about?”

Several of them informed him and he listened gravely
before he called one of the farmer’s stewards,
and spoke a few words to him.

Page 60

“It strikes me,” he said, “that
you had all better go back to the fair-ground, while
I look into things. There’s an item or
two on the program Mr. Carson wants to work off before
supper.”

He had taken the right tone, and when they began to
disperse he rode on to the Sachem.

“I want your account of this disturbance,”
he said to the proprietor.

Beamish related what had taken place and the constable
looked surprised.

“Am I to understand that you’re afraid
to open your bar because of the women?” he asked.

“That’s my opinion, but what am I to do
about it? Suppose these women come back, will
you stand at the door and keep them out? They’re
capable of mobbing you.”

The constable looked dubious, and Beamish continued:

“Besides, I’ve given them my word I’d
shut up—­they made me.”

“Then how do you expect us to help?”

“So far as I can see, you can only report the
matter to your bosses.”

The constable felt inclined to agree with this.
He asked for the names of the ladies, and Beamish
hesitated.

“I was too taken up with Mrs. Nelson to notice
the rest, and the place was rather dark. Anyway,
about half of them were foolish girls with notions;
I don’t want to drag them in.”

“You blame somebody for setting them on?”

“I do,” said Beamish, without a trace
of rancor. “There’s Mrs. Nelson—­everybody
knows she’s a crank—­and Hardie, the
Methodist minister. They’ve been trying
to make trouble for the hotels for quite a while.”

The constable made a note of this and presently called
on Hardie, who had just returned to town after visiting
a sick farmer. The former listened to what the
minister had to say, but was not much impressed.
Beamish had cleverly made him his partizan.

After supper George and Grant called on Hardie and
found him looking distressed.

“I’m much afraid that the result of three
or four months’ earnest work has been destroyed
this afternoon,” he said. “Our allies
have stirred up popular prejudice against us.
We’ll meet with opposition whichever way we
turn.”

“There’s something in that,” Grant
agreed. “Mrs. Nelson’s a lady who
would wreck any cause. Still, she has closed
the hotels.”

“For one night. As a result of this afternoon’s
work, they will probably be kept open altogether.
You can imagine how the authorities will receive
any representations we can make, after our being implicated
in this disturbance.”

“Have you thought of disowning the ladies?
You could do so—­you had no hand in the
thing.”

The young clergyman flushed hotly.

“I’d have stopped this rashness, if I’d
heard of it; but, after all, I’m the real instigator,
since I started the campaign. I’m willing
to face my share of the blame.”

Page 61

“You mean you’ll let Beamish make you
responsible?”

“Of course,” said Hardie. “I
can’t deny I’m leader. The move was
a mistake, considered prudentially; but it was morally
justifiable. I’ll defend it as strongly
as I’m able.”

Grant nodded, and Flora and Mrs. Nelson came in.

“Are you satisfied with what you’ve done?”
Grant said to the girl. “You might have
given me a hint of it.”

Flora smiled.

“I’m afraid Beamish was too clever for
us. From an outsider’s point of view,
he behaved exceptionally well, and in doing so he put
us in the wrong. I didn’t know what had
been planned when I left home, but, as one of the
league, I couldn’t draw back when I heard of
it.”

“You think he was too clever?” Mrs. Nelson
broke in. “How absurd to say that!
We have won a brilliant victory!”

Grant made a little gesture.

“If you’re convinced of that, ma’am,
we’ll leave you to talk it over.”

He led George toward the door.

“I like that man Hardie,” he resumed when
they reached the street. “Beamish has him
beaten for the present, but I’m thankful there’ll
be no women about when we come to grips with his crowd.
It may take a while, but those fellows have got to
be downed.”

CHAPTER XII

GEORGE FACES DISASTER

A fortnight had passed since the affair at the settlement
when Hardie arrived at the Marston homestead toward
supper-time. After the meal was over, he accompanied
his host and Edgar to the little room used for an
office.

“As I’ve been busy since four this morning,
I don’t mean to do anything more,” said
George, “I suppose you don’t smoke?”

“No,” Hardie answered. “It’s
a concession I can make without much effort to our
stricter brethren. I’m inclined to believe
they consider smoking almost as bad as drink.
You agree with them about the latter?”

“We try to be consistent,” Edgar told
him. “You see, I couldn’t very well
indulge in an occasional drink when I’ve undertaken
to make those Sage Butte fellows abstainers.
Anyhow, though you’re by no means liberal in
your view, you’re practical people. As
soon as I landed at Montreal, a pleasant young man,
wearing a silver monogram came up to me, and offered
me introductions to people who might find me a job.
Though I didn’t want one, I was grateful; and
when I told him I wasn’t one of his flock, he
said it didn’t matter. That kind of thing
makes a good impression.”

“How are you getting on at the settlement?”

George interposed.

Hardie sat silent for a few moments, and George saw
that his eyes were anxious and his face looked worn.

“Badly,” he said. “I feel
I can talk to you freely, and that’s really
why I came, though I had another call to make.”

“You’re having trouble?”

“Plenty of it. I’ve had another
visit from the police, though that’s not a very
important matter; and Mrs. Nelson’s action has
raised a storm of indignation. It would be useless
to move any further against the Sachem. Even
this is not the worst. Our people are split up
by disagreements; I’ve been taken to task; my
staunchest supporters are falling away.”

Page 62

“They’ll rally,” said George.
“Leave those who haven’t the courage to
do so alone; you’re better rid of them.
I suppose it’s apt to make a difference in
your finances.”

The clergyman colored.

“That’s true, though it’s hard to
own. It subjects one to a strong temptation.
After all, we’re expected to keep our churches
full—­it’s necessary.”

“The road to success,” Edgar remarked,
“is comparatively easy. Always proclaim
the popular view, but be a little more emphatic and
go a little farther than the rest. Then they’ll
think you a genius and make haste to follow your lead.”

Hardie looked at him quietly.

“There’s another way, Mr. West, and the
gate of it is narrow. I think it seldom leads
to worldly fame.” He paused and sighed.
“It needs courage to enter, and one often shrinks.”

“Well,” said Edgar, “I’ll
confess that I find the popular idea, whatever it
may happen to be, irritating; I like to annoy the people
who hold it by pointing out their foolishness, which
is partly why I’m now farming in western Canada.
George, of course, is more altruistic; though I don’t
think he ever analyzes his feelings. As soon
as he sees anybody in trouble and getting beaten,
he begins to strip. I’ve a suspicion that
he enjoys a fight!”

“If you would stop talking rot, we’d get
on better,” George said curtly, and then turned
to his visitor. “I gather that you’re
afraid of wrecking your church. It’s an
awkward situation, but I suppose you have made up
your mind?”

“Yes; I must go on, if I go alone.”

The man, as the others recognized, had no intention
of being dramatic, but his quiet announcement had
its effect, and there was silence for a moment or
two. Then Edgar, who was impatient of any display
of strong feeling, made an abrupt movement.

“After all,” he said cheerfully, “you’ll
have Mrs. Nelson beside you, and I’m inclined
to think she would enliven any solitude.”

Hardie smiled, and the lad continued:

“Now we had, perhaps, better be practical and
consider how to get over the difficulties.”

He grew less discursive when they fell in with his
suggestion. George possessed sound sense and
some power of leading, and for a while they were busy
elaborating a plan of campaign, in which his advice
was largely deferred to. Then there was an interruption,
for Grierson, his hired man, came in.

“I was hauling hay from the big sloo when I
saw the Hereford bull,” he said. “He
was by himself and bleeding from the shoulder.
Thought I’d better bring him home, though he
walked very lame.”

“Ah!” exclaimed George sharply.
“I’ll come and look at him.”

The others followed and on reaching the wire-fenced
corral they found the animal lying down, with its
forequarter stained with blood. George sent
for some water, and he soon found the wound, which
was very small and round.

Page 63

“It’s a curious mark,” Hardie commented.

“Yes,” said George; “it’s
a bullet hole.”

The surprise of the others was obvious.

“I think it’s a hint,” George explained.
“We’ll try to get him on his feet.”

They succeeded, and when the beast had been led into
a stall, George turned to Hardie.

“As you said you wouldn’t stay the night,
would you mind starting for the settlement now?
The livery stable fellow is said to be clever at
veterinary work; you might send him out, and mail a
note I’ll give you to the police.”

Hardie professed his willingness to be of service,
and on getting into his buggy said, with some hesitation:

“I’m afraid you’re right in your
suspicions, and I’m particularly sorry.
In a way, I’m responsible for this.”

George smiled, rather grimly.

“One can’t go into a fight without getting
hurt; and we haven’t come to the end of it yet.
This affair won’t cost you my support.”

The clergyman’s eyes sparkled as he held out
his hand.

“I never imagined it—­you have my
sympathy, Mr. Lansing. It would give me the
greatest pleasure to see the cowardly brute who fired
that shot brought to justice.”

He drove away, and George went moodily back to the
house with Edgar.

“That’s a man who has had to choose between
his duty and his interest,” George said; “but
just now we have other things to think about.
It’s a pity I can’t get the bullet out
until help arrives.”

The livery man turned up on the following day and
succeeded in extracting it; and Flett made his appearance
the morning after. He examined the wounded animal.

“It may have been done by accident; but, if
so, it’s curious the beast should have been
hit close to a place where it would have killed him,”
he remarked.

“What’s your private opinion?” George
asked.

The constable smiled.

“As we haven’t gone very far yet, I’ll
reserve it.” He took up the bullet.
“Winchester or Marlin; usual caliber; nothing
to be made of that. Now let’s go and take
a look at the place where the shot was fired.”

They traced back the path of the wounded beast from
the spot where Grierson had found it, by the red splashes
that here and there stained the short grass of the
unfenced prairie. At last they stopped where
the ground was broken by a few low sandy ridges sprinkled
with small birches and poplars, and Flett pointed
to the mark of hoofs in a strip of almost bare, light
soil.

“This is where he was hit,” he said.
“You can see how he started off, going as hard
as he could. Next, we’ve got to find the
spot the man fired from.”

It proved difficult. The dry grass revealed
nothing, and they vainly searched several of the neighboring
hillocks, where it grew less thickly. Scorching
sunshine beat down on them and a strong breeze blew
the sand about. At length Flett pointed to a
few half-obliterated footprints on the bare summit
of a small rise.

Page 64

“The fellow stopped here with his feet well
apart. He’d stand like that while he put
up his gun. Sit down and smoke while I copy these
marks.”

He proceeded to do so carefully, having brought some
paper from the homestead.

“Have you any reason for thinking it was a standing
shot he took?” George asked.

“I haven’t; I wish I had. Quite
a lot depends upon his position.”

George nodded.

“So it struck me. We’ll look round
for some more conclusive signs when you have finished.”

Before this happened. Flora Grant rode up.

“I was going back from Forster’s when
I noticed you moving about the hills,” she explained.
“I made this round to find out what you were
doing.”

George told her, and her sympathy was obvious.

“I’m very sorry; but my father warned
you,” she said. “I’m afraid
you’re finding this an expensive campaign.”

“I can put up with it, so long as I have my
friends’ support.”

“I think you can count on that,” she smiled.
“But what is Flett’s theory?”

“If he has one, he’s clever at hiding
it,” Edgar broke in; “but I’m doubtful.
In my opinion, he knows the value of the professional
air of mystery.”

“When I see any use in it, I can talk,”
retorted Flett. “What’s your notion,
Mr. Lansing? You don’t agree that the fellow
shot your beast from here?”

“No,” answered George. “Of
course, there are only two explanations of the thing,
and the first is that it was an accident. In
that case, the fellow must have been out after antelope
or cranes.”

“There’s an objection: it’s
close season; though I wouldn’t count too much
on that. You farmers aren’t particular
when there’s nobody around. Now, it’s
possible that a man who’d been creeping up on
an antelope would work in behind this rise and take
a quick shot, standing, when he reached the top of
it. If so, I guess he’d have his eyes
only on what he was firing at. Suppose he missed,
and your beast happened to be in line with him?”

Flora smiled.

“It’s not convincing, Mr. Flett.
Seen from here, the bull would be in the open, conspicuous
against white grass and sand.”

“I didn’t say the thing was likely.
Won’t you go on, Mr. Lansing?”

“The other explanation is that the fellow meant
to kill or mark the bull; the place where it was hit
points to the former. If that was his intention,
he’d lie down or kneel to get a steadier aim.
We had better look for the spot.”

They spent some time before Flett thought he had found
it.

“Somebody lay down here, and the bull would
be up against a background of poplar scrub,”
he said. “I’ll measure off the distance
and make a plan.”

He counted his paces, and had set to work with his
notebook, when Flora interrupted.

“Wouldn’t a sketch be better? Give
me a sheet of paper; and has anybody another pencil?”

Page 65

George gave her one, and after walking up and down
and standing for a few moments on a low mound, she
chose a position and began the sketch. It was
soon finished, but it depicted the scene with distinctness,
with the bull standing in the open a little to one
side of the clump of scrub. George started as
he saw that she had roughly indicated the figure of
a man lying upon the little mound with a rifle in his
hand. It struck him that she was right.

“It’s a picture,” said the constable;
“but why did you put that fellow yonder?”

“Come and see.”

They followed her to the mound, and after an inspection
of it, Flett nodded.

“You’d make a mighty smart tracker, Miss
Grant. I was against this mound being the firing
place, because, to get to it, the fellow would have
to come out into the open.”

“Would that count? It was a bull he was
after.”

“It was,” Flett agreed. “This
fixes the thing.”

George looked at him meaningly.

“Have you made up your mind about anything else?”

“Oh, yes,” said Flett. “It
was done with malicious mischief. If a poor
white or an Indian meant to kill a beast for meat,
he wouldn’t pick a bull worth a pile of money,
at least while there was common beef stock about.”

“Then what do you mean to do?”

Flett smiled.

“Sooner or later, I’m going to put handcuffs
on the man who did this thing. If you’ll
give me the sketch, Miss Grant, I’ll take it
along.”

Flora handed it to him, and he and Edgar went away
shortly afterward, leaving George with the girl.
She sat still, looking down at him when he had helped
her to the saddle.

“I’m afraid you have a good many difficulties
to face,” she said.

“Yes,” assented George. “A
dry summer is bad for wheat on my light soil, and
that is why I thought of going in for stock.”
He paused with a rueful smile. “It doesn’t
promise to be a great improvement, if I’m to
have my best beasts shot.”

She pointed to the west. The grass about them
was still scorched with fierce sunshine, but leaden
cloud-masses, darkly rolled together with a curious
bluish gleam in them, covered part of the sky.

“This time it will rain,” she said.
“We will be fortunate if we get no more than
that. Try to remember, Mr. Lansing, that bad
seasons are not the rule in western Canada, and one
good one wipes out the results of several lean years.”

Then she rode away, and George joined Edgar.
He felt that he had been given a warning. On
reaching home, he harnessed a team and drove off to
a sloo to haul in hay, but while he worked he cast
anxious glances at the clouds. They rolled on
above him in an endless procession, opening out to
emit a passing blaze of sunshine, and closing in again.
The horses were restless, he could hardly get them
to stand; the grasses stirred and rustled in a curious
manner; and even the little gophers that scurried
away from the wagon wheels displayed an unusual and
feverish activity. Yet there was not a drop of
rain, and the man toiled on in savage impatience,
wondering whether he must once more resign himself
to see the promised deluge pass away.

Page 66

It was a question of serious import. A night’s
heavy rain would consolidate the soil that blew about
with every breeze, revive the suffering wheat and
strengthen its abraded stalks against any further
attack by the driving sand. Indeed, he thought
it would place the crop in security.

He came home for supper, jaded, dusty, and morose,
and found that he could scarcely eat when he sat down
to the meal. He could not rest when it was over,
though he was aching from heavy toil; nor could he
fix his attention on any new task; and when dusk was
getting near he strolled up and down before the homestead
with Edgar. There was a change in the looks
of the buildings—­all that could be done
had been effected—­but there was also a
change in the man. He was leaner, his face was
getting thin, and he looked worn; but he maintained
a forced tranquillity.

The sky was barred with cloud now; the great breadth
of grain had faded to a leaden hue, the prairie to
shadowy gray. The wind had dropped, the air
was tense and still; a strange, impressive silence
brooded over everything.

Presently Edgar looked up at the clouds.

“They must break at last,” he said.
“One can’t help thinking of what they
hold—­endless carloads of grain, wads of
dollar bills for the storekeepers, prosperity for
three big provinces. It’s much the same
weather right along to the Rockies.”

“I wasn’t considering the three provinces,”
said George.

“No,” retorted Edgar. “Your
attention was confined to the improvement the rain
would make in Sylvia Marston’s affairs.
You’re looking forward to sending her a big
check after harvest.”

“So far, it has looked more like facing a big
deficit.”

“You mean your facing it.”

George frowned.

“Sylvia has nothing except this land.”

“It strikes me she’s pretty fortunate,
in one way. You find the working capital and
bear the loss, if there is one. I wonder what
arrangements you made about dividing a surplus.”

“That,” said George, “is a thing
I’ve no intention of discussing with anybody
but my co-trustee.”

Edgar smiled; he had hardly expected to elicit much
information upon the point, having failed to do so
once or twice already.

“Well,” he said, “I believe we’ll
see the rain before an hour has passed.”

Soon after he had spoken, a flash leaped from overhead
and the prairie was flooded with dazzling radiance.
It was followed by a roll of thunder, and a roar
as the rain came down. For a few moments the
dust whirled up and there was a strong smell of earth;
then the air was filled with falling water.
George stood still in the deluge, rejoicing, while
the great drops lashed his upturned face, until Edgar
laughingly pushed him toward the house.

“As I’m wet through, I think I’ll
go to bed. At last, you can rest content.”

Page 67

George, following his example, lay down with a deep
sense of thankfulness. His cares had gone, the
flood that roared against the board walls had banished
them. Now that relief had come, he felt strangely
weary, and in a few minutes he was sound asleep.
He did not hear the thunder, which broke out again,
nor feel the house shake in the rush of icy wind that
suddenly followed; the ominous rattle on roof and
walls, different from and sharper than the lashing
of the rain, began and died away unnoticed by him.
He was wrapped in the deep, healing slumber that
follows the slackening of severe mental and bodily
strain; he knew nothing of the banks of ragged ice-lumps
that lay melting to lee of the building.

It was very cold the next morning, though the sun
was rising above the edge of the scourged plain, when
Edgar, partly dressed and wearing wet boots and leggings,
came into the room and looked down at George compassionately.

The brown face struck him as looking worn; George
had flung off part of the coverings, and there was
something that suggested limp relaxation in his attitude;
but Edgar knew that his comrade must bear his load
again.

“George,” he said, touching him, “you
had better get up.”

The man stirred, and looking at him became at once
intent as he saw his face.

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “Something
else gone wrong?”

Edgar nodded.

“I’m sorry,” he answered simply.
“Put on your things and come out. You
had better get it over with.”

In three or four minutes George left the house.
Holding himself steadily in hand, he walked through
the drenched grass toward the wheat. On reaching
it, he set his lips tight and stood very still.
The great field of grain had gone; short, severed stalks,
half-buried in a mass of rent and torn-up blades,
covered the wide stretch of soil where the wheat had
been. The crop had been utterly wiped out by
the merciless hail. Edgar did not venture to
speak; any sympathy he could express would have looked
like mockery; and for a while there was strained silence.
Then George showed of what tough fiber he was made.

“Well,” he said, “it has to be faced.
After this, we’ll try another plan; more stock,
for one thing.” He paused and then resumed:
“Tell Grierson to hurry breakfast. I must
drive in to the Butte; there’s a good deal to
be done.”

Edgar moved away, feeling relieved. George,
instead of despairing, was considering new measures.
He was far from beaten yet.

CHAPTER XIII

SYLVIA SEEKS AMUSEMENT

Page 68

It was a fine September afternoon and Sylvia reclined
pensively in a canvas hammock on Herbert Lansing’s
lawn with one or two opened letters in her hand.
Bright sunshine lay upon the grass, but it was pleasantly
cool in the shadow of the big copper beech. A
neighboring border glowed with autumn flowers:
ribands of asters, spikes of crimson gladiolus, ranks
of dahlias. Across the lawn a Virginia creeper
draped the house with vivid tints. The scene
had nothing of the grim bareness of the western prairie
of which Sylvia was languidly thinking; her surroundings
shone with strong color, and beyond them a peaceful
English landscape stretched away. She could look
out upon heavily-massed trees, yellow fields with
sheaves in them, and the winding streak of a flashing
river.

Yet Sylvia was far from satisfied. The valley
was getting dull; she needed distraction, and her
letters suggested both the means of getting it and
a difficulty. She wore black, but it had an artistic,
almost coquettish, effect, and the big hat became
her well, in spite of its simple trimming. Sylvia
bestowed a good deal of thought upon her appearance.

After a while Mrs. Lansing came out and joined her.

“Is there any news in your letters?” she
asked.

“Yes,” answered Sylvia; “there’s
one from George—­it’s a little disappointing,
but you can read it. As usual, he’s laconic.”

George’s curtness was accounted for by the fact
that he had been afraid of saying too much, but Sylvia
carelessly handed the letter to her companion.

“After all, he shows a nice feeling,”
Mrs. Lansing remarked. “He seems to regret
very much his inability to send you a larger check.”

“So do I,” said Sylvia with a petulant
air.

“He points out that it has been a bad season
and he has lost his crop.”

“Bad seasons are common in western Canada; I’ve
met farmers who seemed to thrive on them.”

“No doubt they didn’t do so all at once.”

“I dare say that’s true,” Sylvia
agreed. “It’s very likely that if
I give him plenty of time, George will get everything
right—­he’s one of the plodding, persistent
people who generally succeed in the end—­but
what use will there be in that? I’m not
growing younger—­I want some enjoyment now!”
She spread out her hands with a gesture that appealed
for sympathy. “One gets so tired of petty
economy and self-denial.”

“But George and Herbert arranged that you should
have a sufficient allowance.”

“It’s having only the necessary ones that
makes it so dull. Now, I’ve thought of
going to stay a while with Susan Kettering; there’s
a letter from her, asking when I’ll come.”

Page 69

Mrs. Lansing was a lady of strict conventional views,
and she showed some disapproval.

“But you can hardly make visits yet!”

“I don’t see why I can’t visit Susan.
She’s a relative, and it isn’t as if
she were entertaining a number of people. She
says she’s very quiet; she has hardly asked
anybody, only one or two intimate friends.”

“She’ll have three or four men down for
the partridge shooting.”

“After all,” said Sylvia, “I can’t
make her send them away. You have once or twice
had men from town here.”

“Susan leads a very different life from mine,”
Mrs. Lansing persisted. “She’s a
little too fond of amusement, and I don’t approve
of all her friends.” She paused as an
idea struck her. “Is Captain Bland going
there for the shooting?”

Mrs. Lansing would have preferred that Sylvia should
not see so much of Bland as she was likely to do if
she stayed in the same house with him, though she
knew of nothing in particular to his discredit.
He had served without distinction in two campaigns,
he lived extravagantly, and was supposed to be something
of a philanderer. Indeed, not long ago, an announcement
of his engagement to a lady of station had been confidently
expected; but the affair had, for some unknown reason,
suddenly fallen through. Mrs. Lansing was puzzled
about him. If the man were looking for a wealthy
wife, why should he be attracted, as she thought he
was, by Sylvia, who had practically nothing.

“I’d really rather have you remain with
us; but of course I can’t object to your going,”
she said.

“I knew you would be nice about it,” Sylvia
exclaimed. “I must have a talk with Herbert;
you said he would be home this evening.”

Lansing’s business occasionally prevented his
nightly return from the nearest large town, but he
arrived some hours later, and after dinner Sylvia
found him in his smoking-room. He looked up with
a smile when she came in, for their relations were
generally pleasant. They understood each other,
though this did not lead to mutual confidence or respect.

“Well?” he said.

Sylvia sat down in an easy chair, adopting, as she
invariably did, a becoming pose, and handed him George’s
letter.

“He hasn’t sent you very much,”
Herbert remarked.

“No,” said Sylvia, “that’s
the difficulty.”

“So I anticipated. You’re not economical.”

Sylvia laughed.

“I won’t remind you of your failings.
You have one virtue—­you can be liberal
when it suits you; and you’re my trustee.”

Page 70

“I wonder whether you thought it necessary to
tell Muriel so?”

Sylvia sighed.

“I’m afraid I didn’t. I can
hardly expect Muriel to quite understand or sympathize.
She has you, and the flowers she’s so fond of,
and quiet friends of the kind she likes; while it’s
so different with me. Besides, I was never meant
for retirement.”

“That,” laughed Lansing, “is very
true.”

“Of course,” Sylvia went on; “I
shall be very quiet, but there are things one really
has to take part in.”

“Bridge is expensive unless you’re unusually
lucky, or an excellent player,” Lansing suggested.
“However, it would be more to the purpose if
you mentioned what is the least you could manage with.”

Sylvia told him, and he knit his brows.

“Money’s tight with me just now,”
he objected.

“You know it’s only on account.
George will do ever so much better next year; and
I dare say, if I pressed him, he would send another
remittance.”

“His letter indicates that he’d find it
difficult.”

“George wouldn’t mind that. He rather
likes doing things that are hard, and it’s comforting
to think that self-denial doesn’t cost him much.
I’m thankful I have him to look after the farm.”

Lansing regarded her with ironical amusement; he knew
what her gratitude was worth.

Sylvia sat silent for a few moments, because she understood.
If Herbert granted the favor, he would look for something
in return, though she had no idea what this would
be. She was conscious of a certain hesitation,
but she did not allow it to influence her.

“I don’t doubt it,” she rejoined
with a smile. “Can’t you let me have
a check? That will make you my creditor, but
I’m not afraid you’ll be very exacting.

“Well,” was the response, “I will
see what I can do.”

She went out and Lansing filled his pipe with a feeling
of satisfaction. He was not running much risk
in parting with the money, and Sylvia might prove
useful by and by.

Sylvia left Brantholme shortly afterward and, somewhat
to her annoyance, found Ethel West a guest at the
house she visited. Ethel had known Dick; she
was a friend of George’s, and, no doubt, in regular
communication with her brother in Canada. It
was possible that she might allude to Sylvia’s
doings when she wrote; but there was some consolation
in remembering that George was neither an imaginative
nor a censorious person.

Sylvia had spent a delightful week in her new surroundings,
when she descended the broad stairway one night with
a shawl upon her arm and an elegantly bound little
notebook in her hand. A handsome, dark-haired
man whose bearing proclaimed him a soldier walked at
her side. Bland’s glance was quick and
direct, but he had a genial smile and his manners
were usually characterized by a humorous boldness.
Still, it was difficult to find fault with them,
and Sylvia had acquiesced in his rather marked preference
for her society. She was, however, studying
the little book as she went down the shallow steps
and her expression indicated dissatisfaction.

Page 71

“I’m afraid it was my fault, though you
had very bad luck,” said the man, noticing her
look. “I’m dreadfully sorry.”

“It was your fault,” Sylvia rejoined,
with some petulance. “When I held my best
hand I was deceived by your lead. Besides, as
I told the others, I didn’t mean to play; you
shouldn’t have come down and persuaded me.”

Bland considered. On the whole Sylvia played
a good game, but she was obviously a little out of
practise, for his lead had really been the correct
one, though she had not understood it. This,
however, was of no consequence; it was her concluding
words that occupied his attention. They had,
he thought, been spoken with a full grasp of their
significance; his companion was not likely to be guilty
of any ill-considered admission.

“Then I’m flattered that my influence
goes so far, though it’s perhaps unlucky in
the present instance,” he said boldly.
“I’ll own that I’m responsible for
our misfortunes and I’m ready to take the consequences.
Please give me that book.”

“No,” Sylvia replied severely. “I
feel guilty for playing at all, but the line must
be drawn.”

“Where do you feel inclined to draw it?”

They had reached the hall and Sylvia turned and looked
at him directly, but with a trace of coquetry.

“At allowing a comparative stranger to meet
my losses, if I must be blunt.”

“The arrangement isn’t altogether unusual.
In this case, it’s a duty, and the restriction
you make doesn’t bar me out. I’m
not a stranger.”

“A mere acquaintance then,” said Sylvia.

“That won’t do either. It doesn’t
apply to me.”

“Then I’ll have to alter the classification.”
She broke into a soft laugh. “It’s
difficult to think of a term to fit; would you like
to suggest something?”

Several epithets occurred to the man, but he feared
to make too rash a venture.

“Well,” he said, “would you object
to—­confidential friend?”

Sylvia’s smile seemed to taunt him.

“Certainly; it goes too far. One doesn’t
become a confidential friend in a very limited time.”

“I’ve known it happen in a few days.”

“Friendships of that kind don’t last.
In a little while you find you have been deceived.
But we won’t talk of these things. You
can’t have the book, and I’m going out.”

He held up the shawl, which she draped about her shoulders,
and they strolled on to the terrace. The night
was calm and pleasantly cool; beyond the black line
of hedge across the lawn, meadows and harvest fields,
with rows of sheaves that cast dark shadows behind
them, stretched away in the moonlight. After
a while Sylvia stopped and leaned upon the broad-topped
wall.

“It’s really pretty,” she remarked.

“Yes,” returned Bland; “it’s
more than pretty. There’s something in
it that rests one. I sometimes wish I could
live in such a place as this altogether.”

Page 72

Sylvia was astonished, because she saw he meant it.

“After your life, you would get horribly tired
of it in three months.”

“After my life? Do you know what that
has been?”

“Race meetings, polo matches, hilarious mess
dinners.”

He laughed, rather shortly.

“I suppose so; but they’re not the only
army duties. Some of the rest are better, abroad;
but they’re frequently accompanied by semi-starvation,
scorching heat or stinging cold, and fatigue; and it
doesn’t seem to be the rule that those who bear
the heaviest strain are remembered when promotion
comes.”

Sylvia studied him attentively. Bland was well
and powerfully made, and she liked big men—­there
was more satisfaction in bending them to her will.
In spite of his careless good-humor, he bore a certain
stamp of distinction; he was an excellent card-player,
he could dance exceptionally well, and she had heard
him spoken of as a first-class shot. It was
unfortunate that these abilities were of less account
in a military career than she had supposed; but, when
properly applied, they carried their possessor some
distance in other fields. What was as much to
the purpose, Bland appeared to be wealthy, and took
a leading part in social amusements and activities.

“I suppose that is the case,” she said
sympathetically, in answer to his last remark.
“You have never told me anything about your
last campaign. You were injured in it, were
you not?”

The man had his weaknesses, but they did not include
any desire to retail his exploits and sufferings to
women’s ears. He would not speak of his
wounds, honorably received, or of perils faced as carelessly
as he had exposed his men.

“Yes,” he answered. “But that
was bad enough at the time, and the rest of it would
make a rather monotonous tale.”

“Surely not!” protested Sylvia.
“The thrill and bustle of a campaign must be
wonderfully exciting.”

“The novelty of marching steadily in a blazing
sun, drinking bad water, and shoveling trenches half
the night, soon wears off,” he said with a short
laugh, and changed the subject. “One could
imagine that you’re not fond of quietness.”

Sylvia shivered. The memory of her two years
in Canada could not be banished. She looked
back on them with something like horror.

“No,” she declared; “I hate it!
It’s deadly to me.”

“Well, I’ve an idea. There’s
the Dene Hall charity gymkana comes off in a few days.
It’s semi-private, and I know the people; in
fact they’ve made me enter for some of the events.
It’s a pretty ride to the place, and I can
get a good car. Will you come?”

“I don’t know whether I ought,”
said Sylvia, with some hesitation.

“Think over it, anyway,” he begged her.

Page 73

One or two people came out, and when somebody called
her name Sylvia left him, without promising.
Bland remained leaning on the wall and thinking hard.
Sylvia strongly attracted him. She was daintily
pretty, quick of comprehension, and, in spite of her
black attire, which at times gave her a forlorn air
that made him compassionate, altogether charming.
It was, however, unfortunate that he could not marry
a poor wife, and he knew nothing about Sylvia’s
means. To do him justice, he had shrunk from
any attempt to obtain information on this point; but
he felt that it would have to be made before things
went too far. His thoughts were interrupted
by Ethel West, who strolled along the terrace and
stopped close at hand.

“I didn’t expect to find you wrapped in
contemplation,” she remarked.

“As a matter of fact, I’ve been talking.”

“To Mrs. Marston? She’s generally
considered entertaining.”

Bland looked at her with a smile. He liked Ethel
West. She was blunt, without being tactless,
and her conversation was sometimes piquant. Moreover,
he remembered that Ethel and Sylvia were old acquaintances.

“I find her so,” he said. “Though
she has obviously had trouble, she’s very bright.
It’s a sign of courage.”

“In Sylvia Marston’s case, it’s
largely a reaction. She spent what she regards
as two harrowing years in Canada.”

“After all, Canada doesn’t seem to be
a bad place,” said Bland. “Two of
my friends, who left the Service, went out to take
up land and they evidently like it. They got
lots of shooting, and they’ve started a pack
of hounds.”

Ethel considered. She could have told him that
Sylvia’s husband had gone out to make a living,
and had not been in a position to indulge in costly
amusements, but this did not appear advisable.

“I don’t think Marston got a great deal
of sport,” she said. “He had too
much to do.”

“A big place to look after? I understand
it’s wise to buy up all the land you can.”

Ethel’s idea of the man’s views in respect
to Sylvia was confirmed. He was obviously giving
her a lead and she followed it, though she did not
intend to enlighten him.

“Yes,” she answered; “that’s
the opinion of my brother, who’s farming there.
He says values are bound to go up as the new railroads
are built, and Marston had a good deal of land.
Sylvia is prudently keeping every acre and farming
as much as possible.”

She saw this was satisfactory to Bland, and she had
no hesitation in letting him conclude what he liked
from it. It was not her part to caution him,
and it was possible that if no other suitor appeared,
Sylvia might fall back on George, which was a risk
that must be avoided at any cost. Ethel did
not expect to gain anything for herself; she knew
that George had never had any love for her; but she
was determined that he should not fall into Sylvia’s
hands. He was too fine a man, in many ways,
to be thus sacrificed.

Page 74

“But how can Mrs. Marston carry on the farm?”
Bland inquired.

“I should have said her trustees are doing so,”
Ethel answered carelessly. “One of them
went out to look into things not long ago.”

Then she moved away and left Bland with one difficulty
that had troubled him removed.

CHAPTER XIV

BLAND GETS ENTANGLED

When Mrs. Kettering heard of Sylvia’s intention
to attend the gymkana, she gave her consent, and said
that, as she had an invitation, she would make up
a party to go. This was not what Bland required.
It was, however, a four-seated car that he had been
promised the use of; and counting Sylvia and himself
and the driver, there was only one place left.
While he was wondering to whom it would be best to
offer it, Sylvia thought of Ethel West, who had announced
that she would not attend the function. By making
a short round, they could pass through a market town
of some importance.

“You mentioned that you wished to buy some things;
why not come with us?” she said to Ethel.
“We could drop you going out and call for you
coming home. Susan will have the big car full,
so she couldn’t take you, and it’s a long
drive to the station and the trains run awkwardly.”

Sylvia’s motive was easy to discern, but Ethel
agreed. She was, on the whole, inclined to pity
Captain Bland; but he was a stranger and George was
a friend. If Sylvia must choose between them,
it would be much better that she should take the soldier.
For all that, Ethel had an uncomfortable feeling
that she was assisting in a piece of treachery when
she set off soon after lunch on a fine autumn day;
and the car had gone several miles before she began
to enjoy the ride.

For a while the straight white road, climbing steadily,
crossed a waste of moors. The dry grass gleamed
gray and silver among the russet fern; rounded, white-edged
clouds floated, scarcely moving, in a sky of softest
blue. The upland air was gloriously fresh, and
the speed exhilarating.

By and by they ran down into a narrow dale in the
depths of which a river brawled among the stones,
and climbed a long ascent, from which they could see
a moving dust-cloud indicating that Mrs. Kettering’s
car was only a mile or two behind. After that
there was a league of brown heath, and then they sped
down to a wide, wooded valley, in the midst of which
rose the gray walls of an ancient town. On reaching
it, Ethel alighted in the market-square, hard by the
lofty abbey, and turned to Bland.

“I have one or two calls to make after I’ve
finished shopping, but if it takes longer than I expected
or you can’t get here in time, I’ll go
back by train,” she said. “In that
case, you must bring me home from the station.”

Bland promised, and Ethel watched the car with a curious
expression until it vanished under a time-worn archway.
She was vexed with herself for playing into Sylvia’s
hands, though she had only done so in what she regarded
as George’s interest. If Sylvia married
Bland, the blow would no doubt be a heavy one to George,
but it would be better for him in the end.

Page 75

In the meanwhile, the car sped on up the valley until
it reached an ancient house built on to a great square
tower, where Bland was welcomed by a lady of high
importance in the district. Afterward he was
familiarly greeted by several of her guests, which
Sylvia, who had strong ambitions, duly noticed; these
people occupied a different station from the one in
which she had hitherto moved. When Bland was
called away from her, she was shown to a place at some
distance from Mrs. Kettering’s party, and she
sat down and looked about with interest. From
the smooth lawn and still glowing borders before the
old gray house, a meadow ran down to the river that
wandered, gleaming, through the valley, and beyond
it the brown moors cut against the clear blue sky.
In the meadow, a large, oval space was lined with
groups of smartly-dressed people, and in its midst
rose trim pavilions outside which grooms stood holding
beautiful glossy horses. Everything was prettily
arranged; the scene, with its air of gayety, appealed
to Sylvia, and she enjoyed it keenly, though she was
now and then conscious of her somber attire.

Then the entertainment began, and she admitted that
Bland, finely-mounted, was admirable. He took
his part in several competitions, and through them
all displayed a genial good-humor and easy physical
grace. He had for the most part younger men as
antagonists, but Sylvia thought that none of them could
compare with him in manner or bearing.

After a while Sylvia noticed with a start of surprise
and annoyance that Herbert Lansing was strolling toward
her. He took an unoccupied chair at her side.

“What brought you here?” she asked.

“That,” he said, “is easily explained.
I got a kind of circular of invitation, and as I’ve
had dealings with one or two of these people, I thought
it advisable to make an appearance and pay my half-guinea.
Then there’s a man I want a talk with, and I
find that the atmosphere of an office has often a
deterrent effect on those unused to it. But I
didn’t expect to find you here.”

“Susan and some of the others have come; I’ve
no doubt you’ll meet her.”

The explanation appeared adequate on the face of it,
but a moment later Herbert glanced at Bland, who was
dexterously controlling his restive horse.

“The man looks well in the saddle, doesn’t
he?” he said.

“Yes,” assented Sylvia in an indifferent
tone, though she was slightly disturbed. Herbert
was keen-witted, and she would rather not have had
him take an interest in her affairs.

“I’m inclined to think it’s fortunate
I didn’t bring Muriel,” he resumed with
a smile. “She’s rather conventional,
and has stricter views than seem to be general nowadays.”

“I can’t see why I should remain in complete
seclusion; it’s an irrational idea. But
I’ve no intention of concealing anything I think
fit to do.”

“Of course not. Are you going to mention
that you attended this entertainment when you write
to Muriel?”

Page 76

Sylvia pondered her reply. In spite of its dullness,
Mrs. Lansing’s house was a comfortable and secure
retreat. She would have to go back to it presently,
and it was desirable that she should avoid any cause
of disagreement with her hostess.

“No,” she said candidly; “I don’t
see any need for that; and I may not write for some
time. Of course, Muriel doesn’t quite look
at things as I do, and on one or two points she’s
unusually sensitive.”

Herbert looked amused.

“You’re considerate; and I dare say you’re
right. There doesn’t seem to be any reason
why Muriel should concern herself about the thing,
particularly as you’re in Susan’s hands.”

The implied promise that he would not mention his
having seen her afforded Sylvia some relief, but when
he went away to speak to Mrs. Kettering, she wished
she had not met him. Herbert was troubled by
none of his wife’s prejudices, but on another
occasion he had made her feel that she owed him something
for which he might expect some return, and now the
impression was more marked; their secret, though of
no importance, had strengthened his position.
Herbert seldom granted a favor without an end in
view; and she did not wish him to get too firm a hold
on her. The feeling, however, wore off, and she
had spent a pleasant afternoon when Bland came for
her as the shadows lengthened.

He reminded her of Ethel:

“We’ll have to get off, if we’re
to pick up Miss West.”

Sylvia said that she was ready, though she felt it
would have been more satisfactory had Ethel been allowed
to go back by train. They began the journey,
but after a few miles the car stopped on a steep rise.
The driver with some trouble started the engine, but
soon after they had crossed the crest of the hill
it stopped again, and he looked grave as he supplied
Bland with some details that Sylvia found unintelligible.

“You must get her along another mile; then you
can go back on a bicycle for what you want,”
Bland told him, and turned to Sylvia. “We’ll
be delayed for an hour or so, but he can leave word
for Miss West, and there’s an inn not far off
where they’ll give us tea while we’re
waiting.”

They reached it after turning into another road, though
the car made alarming noises during the journey.
Sylvia viewed the old building with appreciation.
It stood, long and low and cleanly white-washed, on
the brink of a deep ghyll filled with lichened boulders
and russet ferns, with a firwood close behind it,
and in front a wide vista of moors and fells that
stood out darkly blue against the evening light.
Near the stone porch, a rustic table stood beside a
row of tall red hollyhocks.

Bland ordered it and they sat down to a neatly-served
meal. The evening was warm and very still and
clear. A rattle of wheels reached them from
somewhere far down the road and they could hear the
faint splash of water in the depths of the ravine.

Page 77

“This is really delightful,” murmured
Sylvia, when the table had been cleared. “I
like the quietness of the country when it comes as
a contrast, after, for example, such an afternoon
as we have spent.”

“Then you’re not sorry you came?”

“Sorry? You wouldn’t suggest it,
if you knew how dull my days often are. But
I mustn’t be doleful. You may smoke, if
you like.”

Bland did not particularly wish to smoke, but he lighted
a cigarette. It seemed to banish formality, to
place them on more familiar terms.

“What is the matter with the car?” Sylvia
asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you.
It can’t be got along without something the
man has gone back for.”

“They do stop sometimes. Is this one in
the habit of doing so?”

“I can’t say, as it isn’t mine.
Why do you ask?”

“Oh!” said Sylvia, “I had my suspicions.
The man didn’t seem in the least astonished
or annoyed, for one thing. Then it broke down
in such a convenient place.”

Sylvia leaned back in her chair and glanced appreciatively
at the moor.

“After all,” she said, “it’s
remarkably pretty here, and a change is nice.
I’ll confess that I find Susan’s friends
a little boring.”

The implication was that she preferred Bland’s
society, and he was gratified.

“That struck me some time ago,” he rejoined.
“I wonder if you can guess why I thought it
worth while to put up with them?”

Sylvia smiled as she looked at him. She liked
the man; she thought that he had a good deal she valued
to offer her; but as yet she desired only his captivation.
She must not allow him to go too far.

“You might have had a number of motives,”
she said carelessly. “I don’t feel
much curiosity about them.”

Bland bore the rebuff good-humoredly. Patience
was one of his strong points, and since his conversation
with Ethel West on the terrace he had made up his
mind. In arriving at a decision, the man was
honest and ready to make some sacrifice. He
had been strongly impressed by Sylvia on their first
meeting, but he had realized that it would be a mistake
to marry her unless she had some means. Hitherto
he had found it difficult to meet his expenses, which
were large. He did not believe now that Sylvia
was rich, and he had seen enough of her to suspect
that she was extravagant, but this did not deter him.
She had undoubtedly some possessions, and he was
prepared to retrench and deny himself a number of
costly pleasures. Indeed, he had once or twice
thought of leaving the army.

“Then I won’t force an explanation on
you,” he said, and lighting another cigarette,
lazily watched her and tried to analyze her charm.

Page 78

He failed to do so. Sylvia was a born coquette,
and most dangerous in that her power of attraction
was natural, and as a rule she appealed to the better
and more chivalrous feelings of her victims.
Fragile, and delicately pretty, she looked as if she
needed some one to shelter and defend her from all
troubles. Bland decided that, although she rarely
said anything brilliant, and he had seen more beautiful
women, he had not met one who, taken all round, could
compare with Sylvia.

“What are you thinking of?” she asked
at length, with a gleam of mischief in her eyes.

“Oh,” he answered, slightly confused,
“my mind was wandering. I believe I was
trying to explain a thing that’s wrapped in impenetrable
mystery.”

“One wouldn’t have imagined you were given
to that kind of amusement, and it’s obviously
a waste of time. Wouldn’t it be wiser to
accept the object that puzzles you for what it seems,
if it’s nice?”

“It is,” he declared, wondering whether
this was a random shot on her part or one of the flashes
of penetration with which she sometimes surprised
him.

“Your advice is good.”

“I believe so,” responded Sylvia.
“If a thing pleases you, don’t try to
find out too much about it. That’s the
way to disappointment.”

She was a little astonished at his reply.

“Perhaps it’s a deserved penalty.
One should respect a beautiful mystery—­unquestioning
faith is a power. It reacts upon its object as
well as upon its possessor.”

“All this is far too serious,” said Sylvia,
petulantly; for her companion’s moralizing had
awakened a train of unpleasant reflections.

She did not think unquestioning faith was common,
but she knew of one man who was endowed with it, and
he was toiling for her sake on the desolate western
prairie. Once or twice his belief in her had
roused angry compunction, and she had revealed the
more unfavorable aspects of her character, but he
had refused to see them.

“I’m not sure that’s flattering,
and it’s an indifferent topic; but I won’t
back out. As I gave you your choice, I must take
the consequences.”

“Are you always ready to do that?” There
was a tiny hint of seriousness in her voice.

“Well,” he said with some dryness, “I
generally try.”

Page 79

There was something that reminded her of George in
his expression. The man, she thought, would
redeem what pledge he gave; he might be guilty of
rashness, but he would not slink away when the reckoning
came. Then she became conscious of a half-tender
regret. It was a pity that George was so fond
of the background, and left it only when he was needed,
while Brand was a prominent figure wherever he went,
and this was, perhaps, the one of his characteristics
which most impressed her. Then he rather modestly
began the brief account of his career, adding scraps
of information about his relatives, who were people
of station. He did not enlarge upon several points
that were in his favor, but he omitted to state that
he had now and then been on the verge of a financial
crisis.

Sylvia listened with keen interest, and asked a few
questions to help him on; but when he finished she
let the subject drop. Soon afterward she glanced
down the road, which was growing dim.

Sylvia smiled rather wistfully. “That
must be confessed; I need a little stir and brightness
and I so seldom get it. You know Muriel; I owe
her a good deal, but she’s so dull and she makes
you feel that everything you like to do is wrong.”

“But you haven’t been very long with Mrs.
Lansing. Wasn’t it different in Canada?”
Bland had a reason for venturing on the question,
though it was rather a delicate one.

“I can hardly bear to think of it! For
four months in the year I was shut up, half-frozen,
in a desolate homestead. There was deep snow
all round the place; nobody came. It was a day’s
drive to a forlorn settlement; nothing ever broke
the dreary monotony. In summer one got worn
out with the heat and the endless petty troubles.
There was not a moment’s rest; the house was
filled with plowmen and harvesters, uncouth barbarians
who ate at our table and must be waited on.”

Bland was moved to pity; but he was also consoled.
As she had not mentioned Marston, she could not greatly
have felt his loss. Sylvia must have married
young; no doubt, before she knew her mind.

“I wish,” he said quietly, “I could
do something to make your life a little brighter.”

“But you can’t. I’ve had one
happy day—­and I’m grateful.
It must last me a while.”

He leaned forward, looking at her with an intent expression.

“Sylvia, give me the right to try.”

She shrank from him with a start that was partly natural,
for she was not quite prepared for a bold avowal.

“No,” she said in alarm. “How
can I do that?”

“Don’t you understand me, Sylvia?
I want the right to take care of you.”

Page 80

She checked him with a gesture.

“It is you who can’t understand.
Do you think I’m heartless?”

“Nothing could make me think hardly of you,”
he declared.

“Then show me some respect and consideration.
It was what I looked for; I felt I was safe with
you.”

Though he had not expected strong opposition, he saw
that she was determined. He had been too precipitate,
and while he had no idea of abandoning his purpose,
he bowed.

“If I’ve offended, you must forgive me—­I
thought of nothing beyond my longing for you.
That won’t change or diminish, but I’ve
been rash and have startled you. I must wait.”

He watched her in keen anxiety, but Sylvia gave no
hint of her feelings. As a matter of fact, she
was wondering why she had checked and repulsed him.
She could not tell. A sudden impulse had swayed
her, but she was not sorry she had yielded to it.
Her hold on the man was as strong as ever; the affair
was not ended.

There was silence for the next few minutes.
It was growing dark; the hills had faded to blurs
of shadows, and the moor ran back, a vast, dim waste.
Then a twinkling light moved toward them up the ascending
road. Bland rose and pointed to it.

“I dare say the man has got the things he needed.
We’ll be off again shortly,” he said
in his usual manner; and Sylvia was grateful.

In another half-hour the car was ready, and when Bland
helped Sylvia in and wrapped the furs about her, there
was something new in his care for her comfort.
It was a kind of proprietary gentleness which she
did not resent. Then they sped away across the
dusky moor.

CHAPTER XV

HERBERT MAKES A CLAIM

Sylvia finished her round of visits in a state approaching
insolvency. Mrs. Kettering, with whom she stayed
some time, indulged in expensive amusements, and though
she would have listened with good-humor to a plea
of poverty, Sylvia declined to make it. She would
not have Bland suspect the state of her affairs, and
while he remained in the house she took her part in
all that went on, which included card-playing for
high stakes. As it happened, she had a steady
run of misfortune. Bland sympathized with her
and occasionally ventured a remonstrance, but she
could see that the cheerful manner in which she faced
her losses had its effect on him.

On the evening of her return, Herbert was strolling
along the platform at a busy junction, in the gathering
dusk, when he noticed Bland speaking to a porter.
Soon afterward. Bland came toward him, and
Herbert asked him if he were staying in the neighborhood.

“No,” said Bland; “I’m passing
through; only been here half an hour. We’re
probably on the same errand.”

“I came to meet Mrs. Marston,” Herbert
told him. “And I broke my journey to town
with the idea of being of some assistance when she
changed.”

Page 81

“They don’t give one much time here, and
it’s an awkward station,” Herbert said,
with a careless air.

It struck him that Sylvia’s acquaintance with
the man must have ripened rapidly, for he was well
informed of her movements; but this was no concern
of his. He had thought for some time that a match
between her and George would be unsuitable.
For a while he and Bland talked about indifferent
matters, and then the latter turned to him with a smile.

“I was very lucky at a small steeplechase,”
he said. “Backed a rank outsider that
only a few friends of mine believed in. Do you
know of anything that’s bound to go up on the
Stock Exchange? It’s in your line, I think.”

“I don’t. Such stocks are remarkably
scarce. If there’s any strong reason for
a rise in value, buyers anticipate it.”

“Then perhaps you know of something that has
a better chance than the rest? I expect your
tip’s worth having.”

“You might try—­rubber!”

“Rubber? Hasn’t that been a little
overdone?”

Herbert considered, for this remark confirmed his
private opinion. Rubber shares had been in strong
demand, but he thought they would not continue in
general favor. The suggestion made by an outsider
might be supposed to express the view held by small
speculators, which had its effect on the market.

“I gave you my idea, but I can’t guarantee
success,” he said. “You must use
your judgment, and don’t blame me if things go
wrong.”

“Of course not; the risk’s mine,”
returned Bland; and Herbert thought he meant to follow
his advice.

A few minutes later, the train which they were waiting
for came in, and Herbert tactfully stood aside when
Bland helped Sylvia to alight. Watching her face,
he concluded by the absence of any sign of surprise
that the meeting had been arranged. Bland, however,
had little opportunity for conversation amid the bustle;
and the train was on the point of starting before
Sylvia saw Herbert. He got in as it was moving,
and she looked at him sharply.

“I didn’t expect you would meet me.”

“So I supposed,” he told her.

“Oh, well,” she said, smiling, “you
might have been useful.”

Herbert thought she might have thanked him for coming,
considering that he had, by his wife’s orders,
made an inconvenient journey; but gratitude was not
one of Sylvia’s virtues.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked.

“Yes, on the whole, but I’ve been dreadfully
unlucky. In fact, I’m threatened by a
financial crisis.”

Herbert made a rueful grimace.

“I know what that means; I’m getting used
to it. But we’ll talk the matter over
another time. I suppose I’m neglecting
my duties; I ought to lecture you.”

“Isn’t Muriel capable of doing all that’s
necessary in that line?”

“She’s hampered by not knowing as much
as I do,” Herbert retorted with a meaning smile.

Page 82

Nothing of moment passed between them during the rest
of the journey, but some time after they reached home
Herbert turned to Sylvia, who was sitting near him,
in the absence of his wife.

“You’re short of funds again?” he
asked.

Sylvia explained her embarrassments, and Herbert looked
thoughtful.

“So,” he said, “you have spent what
George sent, as well as what I advanced you in anticipation
of his next remittance. This can’t go on,
you know.”

“I’ll be very economical for the next
few months,” Sylvia promised penitently.

“If you’re not, you’ll find very
stern economy imperative during those that follow;
but I’ll let you have a small check before I
leave.”

Sylvia thanked him and they talked about other matters
for a while. Then he said carelessly:

“There’s a favor you could do me.
It won’t cost you any trouble. A young
man is coming down here next week, and I want you to
be as pleasant as you can and make him enjoy his visit.
I’m inclined to think he’ll appreciate
any little attention you can show him.”

“Not altogether. Muriel’s an excellent
hostess; she will do her part, but I want you to assist
her. You have exceptional and rather dangerous
gifts.”

“Don’t go too far,” Sylvia warned
him. “But I’d better understand the
situation. How long do you expect me to be amiable
to the man?”

“Only for a couple of days. He might come
down again, but that’s not certain.”

Sylvia considered, for she saw what Herbert required.
She was to exert her powers of fascination upon the
visitor, in order to make him more pliable in his
host’s hands. The task was not a disagreeable
one, and she had foreseen all along that Herbert,
in indulging her in various ways, would look for some
return.

“After all,” she said, “there’s
no reason why I should be ungracious to him, so long
as he’s pleasant.”

Herbert carelessly nodded agreement, but Sylvia knew
that he expected her to carry out his wishes; and
she did not find it difficult when the guest arrived.

Paul Singleton was young, and perhaps unusually susceptible
to the influences brought to bear upon him during
his visit. Born with some talents, in very humble
station, he had by means of scholarships obtained
an excellent education, and had devoted himself in
particular to the study of botany. A prosperous
man who took an interest in him sent him out to a
tropical plantation, where he wrote a work on the
vegetable product of equatorial regions, which secured
him notice. Indeed, he was beginning to make
his mark as an authority on the subject. So
far, however, his life had been one of economy and
self-denial, and although Lansing’s dwelling
was not characterized by any very marked signs of
culture or luxury, it was different from the surroundings
to which Singleton was accustomed. His hostess
was staidly cordial and at once set him at his ease;
Sylvia was a revelation. Her piquant prettiness
and her charm of manner dazzled him. She played
her part well, not merely because she had agreed to
do so, but because it was one that strongly appealed
to her nature.

Page 83

On the second evening of Singleton’s visit,
he was talking to Sylvia rather confidentially in
the drawing-room, where Mrs. Lansing had left them,
while Herbert was seated at a table in his library
with a cigar in his hand and a litter of papers in
front of him. He was thinking hard, and rubber
occupied the foremost place in his mind. He was
a director of a company, formed to exploit a strip
of rubber-bearing territory in the tropics, which
had hitherto been successful; but he felt that it
was time to retire from the position and realize the
profit on his shares. There was another company
he and some associates had arranged to launch, but
he was now very doubtful whether this would be wise.
Rubber exploitations were overdone; there were signs
that investors were losing their confidence.
Withdrawal, however, was difficult, for it must be
quietly effected without breaking prices by any unusual
sales. It was therefore desirable that other
holders should cling to their shares, and any fresh
buying by outsiders would, of course, be so much the
better. This was one reason why he had suggested
a purchase to Bland.

Opening a book, he noted the amount of stock standing
in George’s name. This had been purchased
by Herbert, who had been given such authority by his
cousin at a time when the directors’ position
needed strengthening, though it had been necessary
to dispose of sound shares, yielding a small return.
The prompt sale of this stock would secure George
a moderate profit, but after some consideration Herbert
decided that it should remain. He had no wish
that George should suffer, but his own interests stood
first. Then he carefully studied several sheets
of figures, which confirmed his opinion that a drop
in the value of the stock he owned might be looked
for shortly, though he thought very few people realized
this yet. It was time for effective but cautious
action. He must unload as soon as possible.

By and by he rang a bell, and passed across the cigar
box when Singleton came in and sat down opposite him.
He was a wiry, dark-haired man with an intelligent
face which had grown rather white and haggard in the
tropics. Just now he felt grateful to his host,
who had made his stay very pleasant and had given
him an opportunity for meeting Sylvia.

“I suppose you have read my report on your new
tropical property?” he said.

“Yes,” answered Herbert, picking up a
lengthy document. “I’ve given it
some thought. On the whole, it isn’t optimistic.”

Singleton pondered this. He had learned a little
about company floating, and was willing to oblige
his host as far as he honestly could. Lansing
had enabled him to undertake a search for some rare
examples of tropical flora by paying him a handsome
fee for the report.

“Well,” he said, “there is some
good rubber in your territory, as I have stated.”

“But not readily accessible?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say it is.”

Page 84

Herbert smiled at him.

“I’m not suggesting such a course.
In asking a man of your character and attainments
to investigate, I was prompted by the desire to get
a reliable report.”

Singleton did not know what to make of this; so far
as his experience went, gentlemen who paid for an
opinion on the property they meant to dispose of did
not want an unfavorable one.

“The rubber’s scattered and grows in awkward
places,” he explained.

“Precisely.” Herbert glanced at
the paper. “You mentioned something of
the kind. But what about planting and systematic
cultivation?”

“Soil and climate are eminently suitable.”

“I gather that there’s a difficulty in
the way of obtaining native labor?”

Singleton broke into a grim smile.

“It’s a serious one. The natives
consider strangers as their lawful prey, and they
lately managed to give a strong punitive expedition
a good deal of trouble. In fact, as they’re
in a rather restless mood, the authorities were very
dubious about letting me go inland, and in spite of
the care I took, they got two of my colored carriers.
Shot them with little poisoned arrows.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Herbert. “Poisoned
arrows? That should have a deterrent effect.”

“Singularly so. A slight prick is enough
to wipe you out within an hour. It’s merciful
the time is so short.”

“That,” said Herbert, “was not quite
what I meant. I was thinking of the effect upon
the gentlemen who wish to launch this company.”

“The risk isn’t attached to their end
of the business,” Singleton dryly pointed out.

Herbert did not answer. While he sat, with knitted
brows, turning over some of the papers in front of
him. Singleton looked about. Hitherto
his life had been spent in comfortless and shabby English
lodgings, in the sour steam of tropic swamps, and
in galvanized iron factories that were filled all
day with an intolerable heat. As a result of
this, his host’s library impressed him.
It was spacious and furnished in excellent taste;
a shaded silver lamp stood on the table, diffusing
a restricted light that made the room look larger;
a clear wood fire burned in the grate. The effect
of all he saw was tranquilizing; and the house as
a whole, inhabited, as it was, by two charming, cultured
women, struck him as a delightful place of rest.
He wondered with longing whether he would have an
opportunity for coming back to it.

Then his host looked up.

“Have you any strong objections to recasting
this report?” he asked. “Don’t
mistake me. I’m not asking you to color
things in any way; I want simple facts. After
what you have told me, I can’t consider the
prospects of our working the concessions very favorable.”

Singleton was surprised; Lansing’s attitude
was puzzling, considering that he had suggested the
flotation of the projected company.

Page 85

“Do you want the drawbacks insisted on?”
he asked.

Herbert smiled.

“I don’t want them mitigated; state them
clearly. Include what you told me about the
trouble with the natives, and the poisoned arrows.”

Then a light broke in upon Singleton. He had
not placed his host in the same category with Mrs.
Lansing and Sylvia. It looked as if he had changed
his plans and wished to prevent the company from being
formed. This caused Singleton to consider how
far he would be justified in assisting him.
He could honestly go some length in doing so, and,
having fallen a victim to Sylvia’s charm, he
was willing to do his utmost.

“There’s no doubt that some of the facts
are discouraging,” he said.

Herbert looked at him keenly.

“That is what struck me. Suppose you think
the thing over and bring me down a fresh report a
week from to-day. Stay a day or two, if you’re
not busy; I can get you some shooting, and we can talk
over any points that seem to require it at leisure.”

Singleton sat silent a moment. He wanted to
come back, and he did not believe the concession could
be profitably worked by any usual methods. For
all that, he thought he could make something of the
property; it was not altogether worthless, though
it would require exceptional treatment.

“Perhaps that would be better,” he replied,
“I should be delighted to make another visit.”

Herbert took up the paper and looked at Singleton
with a smile as he flung it into the fire.

“Now I think we’ll go down,” he
said. “Mrs. Lansing will be waiting for
us.”

Singleton spent the remainder of the evening with
great content, talking to Sylvia. When she left
him, Herbert met her in the hall.

“Thanks,” he smiled meaningly. “Did
you find the man interesting?”

“To some extent,” returned Sylvia; “he’s
a type that’s new to me. Still, of course,
he’s a little raw, and inclined to be serious.
I think one could see too much of him.”

“He’s coming down again in a week.”

“Oh!” said Sylvia, with signs of protest.
“And after that?”

Herbert laughed.

“I don’t think he’ll make a third
visit.”

CHAPTER XVI

A FORCED RETIREMENT

Singleton came down again to Brantholme, bringing
his amended report, which met with Herbert’s
approval. He spent one wet day walking through
turnip fields and stubble in search of partridges,
and two delightful evenings with Mrs. Lansing and
Sylvia, and then he was allowed to depart. He
had served his purpose, and Herbert was glad to get
rid of him. Lansing generally found it desirable
to drop men for whom he had no more use; but he had
not done with Singleton.

Page 86

A day or two later, after his guest had left, Herbert
sat in his office in a busy town with an open ledger
in front of him. He looked thoughtful, and,
as a matter of fact, he was reviewing the latter part
of his business career, which had been marked by risks,
boldly faced, but attended by keen anxiety.
Though his wife had some money, Lansing had been hampered
by lack of capital, and George’s money had been
placed at his disposal at a very opportune time.
It had enabled him to carry the rubber company over
what might have proved a crisis, and thus strengthen
his position as director, by purchasing sufficient
shares on George’s account to keep the price
from falling and defeat the intrigues of a clique
of discontented investors. Now, however, the
strain had slackened; Herbert’s schemes had succeeded,
and he had only to take his profit by selling out
as quietly as possible. He had already given
a broker orders to do so. He rather regretted
that he could not dispose of George’s shares,
but these must be kept a little longer; to throw a
large quantity upon the market would have a depressing
effect and might arouse suspicion.

Presently a man with whom he had dealings was shown
in and sat down. His appearance indicated some
degree of prosperity, but he looked disturbed and
anxious.

“I met Jackson yesterday, and after what he
told me of his interview with you, I thought I’d
better run up and see you at once,” he explained.

Herbert had expected the visit.

“I’m at your service,” he said.

“What about the new company? I understand
you haven’t come to any decision yet about the
suggestions we sent you for its flotation.”

“No,” replied Herbert. “In
fact, I’ve reasons for believing it wouldn’t
be wise to go any farther in the matter.”

The other looked at him in astonishment.

“Well,” he said, “I heard that you
were not so enthusiastic as you were not long ago,
which is why I came down; but I never expected this!
Anyway, after what we have done, you are bound to go
on with the thing. Our success with the first
company will help the shares off.”

“That’s not certain.” Herbert
handed him a paper. “You haven’t
seen Singleton’s report.”

The man read it hastily, his face changing.
Then he looked up with signs of strong indignation.

“You let him give you a thing like this?
Paid him for it?”

“What could I do? The man’s honest.
He declares the country’s dangerous; he had
two carriers killed. There’s no prospect
of our obtaining the needful native labor.”

“Send somebody else out at once!”

“With the same result. Besides, it’s
expensive. Singleton’s fee wasn’t
so big, because he shared the cost of his orchid collecting
or something of the kind with us. Then he might
talk, and there would always be the risk of somebody’s
challenging us with suppressing his report.
If things went wrong, that would lead to trouble.”

Page 87

“Would there be any use in my seeing him?”

Herbert smiled. Singleton would not turn against
him; Sylvia had made her influence felt.

“Not the slightest,” he answered.
“You can take that for granted.”

His visitor pondered for a moment or two; and then
he crumpled the report in his hand, growing red in
the face.

“You seem content with this production.
It looks as if you had meant to back out.”

Herbert looked at him tranquilly.

“Well,” he said, “that’s my
intention now; and I don’t think that you can
induce me to alter it. I can’t see that
we would be justified in floating the concern.”

“But it was you who suggested it and led us
on! What about the money we have already spent?”

“It’s gone. I’m sorry, but
things don’t always turn out right. When
I first mentioned the matter, the prospects looked
good; investigation places them in a less favorable
light, for which you can hardly hold me responsible.
You took a business risk.”

The other man angrily flung the report on the table.

“This has been a blow to me, and I’m far
from appreciating the course you’ve taken.
But what about the older concern? Though we
don’t seem to have turned out much rubber yet,
I suppose its position is still satisfactory?”

Herbert saw suspicion in the man’s face and
he rang a bell.

“I think you had better satisfy yourself; I
have the necessary particulars here.”

He indicated some books on a neighboring shelf; and
then added, when a clerk appeared:

“Will you bring me the extract of our working
expenses that I asked you to make out?”

The clerk came back with a sheet of figures, which
Herbert handed to his visitor with one of the books,
and the man spent some time carefully examining them.

“Everything looks satisfactory; I’ve no
fault to find,” he said at length. “But
I feel very sore about your giving up the new undertaking.”

“It can’t be helped,” explained
Herbert. “If it’s any comfort to
you, I dropped as much money over preliminary expenses
as you did.”

After a little further conversation, his visitor left
and Herbert resumed his work. On the whole,
the interview had been less embarrassing than he expected,
and though it was likely that the rest of his colleagues
would call and expostulate, he was ready to meet them.
His excuse for abandoning the project was, on the
face of it, a good one; but he had no thought of giving
these men, who were largely interested in the original
company, a word of warning. It was undesirable
that they should sell their shares until he had disposed
of his. They had, he argued, the same opportunities
for forecasting the course of the market and gaging
the trend of investors’ ideas as he enjoyed,
and if they did not make use of them, it was their
fault. The stock had reached a satisfactory
premium, which was all that he had promised; he could
not be expected to guarantee its remaining at the
high level.

Page 88

During the next three or four weeks his broker sold
out his shares in small blocks, and when the quantity
had been largely reduced, Herbert decided that he
would dispose of those he had purchased on George’s
account. Though there were signs of a diminishing
interest in such stock, values had scarcely begun
to fall, and having made his position secure, he did
not wish his cousin to incur a loss. Accordingly
he sent instructions to sell another lot of shares.

He was very busy the next day when a telegram was
brought him, but he sat still for some minutes considering
it. The market, it stated, had suddenly fallen
flat, and as prices were giving way sharply, further
orders were requested. The change Herbert had
foreseen had come a little sooner than he had expected.
He still held some shares, which he had thought of
keeping, because it might, after all, prove judicious
to retain a degree of control in the company, and having
sold the rest at a good profit, a moderate fall in
their value would be of less consequence. The
drop, however, was marked, and he decided to further
reduce the quantity standing in his name, instead of
realizing those belonging to his cousin. George
must take his chance; and the market might rally.
As a result of these reflections he wired his broker
to sell, and in a few hours received an answer.

Herbert saw that he had acted with prudence, though
it was evident that his cousin had incurred a serious
loss. He was sorry for this, but it could not
be helped.

A few days later he was sitting beside the fire at
home after his evening meal when Sylvia entered the
room in his wife’s absence. She stood
near the hearth, examining some embroidery in her hand,
but she looked up presently, and it became evident
that she had been reading the papers.

“There seems to be a sharp fall in rubber shares,”
she said. “Will it affect you?”

“No,” replied Herbert, “not seriously.”

“I suppose that means you must have anticipated
the fall and sold out—­unloaded, I think
you call it—­in time?”

Herbert did not wish to discuss the matter.
He had already had one or two trying interviews with
his business colleagues, and the opinions they had
expressed about him still rankled in his mind.
He was not particularly sensitive, but the subject
was an unpleasant one.

“Something of the kind,” he answered.
“One has to take precautions.”

Sylvia laughed.

“One could imagine your taking them. You’re
not the man to be caught at a disadvantage, are you?”

“Well,” he said dryly, “it’s
a thing I try to avoid.”

Sylvia sat down, as if she meant to continue the conversation,
which was far from what he desired, but he could not
be discourteous.

“Had George any shares in your company?”
she asked.

Page 89

There was no way of avoiding a reply, without arousing
her suspicions; Herbert knew that she was keen-witted
and persistent.

“Yes,” he said, “he had a quantity.”

“Have those shares been sold?”

This was a more troublesome question, but Herbert
was compelled to answer.

“No; not yet. It’s unfortunate that
the market broke before I could get rid of them, but
it may rally. I’m rather disturbed about
the matter; but, after all, one has to take one’s
chance in buying shares. Dealing in the speculative
sorts is to a large extent a game of hazard.”

“I suppose so, but then somebody must win.”

“No,” returned Herbert, “now and
then everybody loses.”

Sylvia glanced at him with a mocking smile.

“Even those in the inside ring? When that
happens, it must be something like a catastrophe.
But I’m sorry for George; he doesn’t
deserve this.”

Herbert could not deny it; but, to his surprise, the
girl leaned forward, speaking in an authoritative
tone.

“I don’t know what you can do, but you
must do something to get George out of the difficulty.
It’s obvious that you led him into it—­he
isn’t the man to go in for rash speculation;
he would have chosen something safe.”

It was a relief to Herbert that his wife came in just
then; but, as he had reason for believing that she
would not remain, he decided that he would go out
and post some letters. Sylvia seemed to be in
an inquisitive mood, and he did not wish to be left
alone with her.

The night was fine but dark; in places a thin, low-lying
mist that hung over the meadows obscured the hedgerows,
and it grew more dense as Herbert approached the river,
which brawled noisily among the stones. The man,
however, scarcely noticed this; his mind was occupied
with other matters. Sylvia’s attitude
had disturbed him. She was useful as an ally,
but she could not be allowed to criticize his conduct
or to give him orders. Moreover, he had reasons
for believing that investors in his company might
share her views, and he looked for serious trouble
with two or three gentlemen who blamed him for their
losses, and had so far incivilly refused to be pacified
by his explanations.

Herbert was of a philosophic disposition, and realized
that one must not expect too much. Having made
a handsome profit, he felt that he ought to be content,
and bear a certain amount of suspicion and contumely
with unruffled good-humor. For all that, he found
it disagreeable to be looked upon as a trickster,
and it was worse when his disgusted associates used
more offensive epithets in his presence.

He was considering how he should deal with them when
he entered a thicker belt of mist. It shut him
in so that he could see nothing ahead, but there was
a strong fence between him and the river, and he went
on, lost in thought, until the mist was suddenly illuminated
and a bright light flashed along the road. The
hoot of a motor-horn broke out behind him, and, rudely
startled, he sprang aside. He was too late;
somebody cried out in warning, and the next moment
he was conscious of a blow that flung him bodily forward.
He came down with a crash; something seemed to grind
him into the stones; there was a stabbing pain in
his side, and he lost consciousness.

Page 90

Fortunately, the big car was promptly stopped, and
two men sprang down. An indistinct object lay
just behind the forward pair of wheels, and in anxious
haste they dragged it clear and into the glare of the
lamps. Herbert’s hat had fallen off; he
was scarcely breathing, and his face was ghastly white;
but one of the men recognized him.

“It’s Lansing,” he exclaimed.
“Seems badly hurt, though I’d nearly
pulled her up when she struck him.”

“He was dragged some way; jacket must have caught
the starting crank or something; but that doesn’t
matter now.” He raised his voice.
“Dreadfully sorry, Mr. Lansing; can you hear
me?”

There was no answer, and the man shook his head.

“I’m afraid this is serious.”

His companion looked unnerved, but he roused himself
with an effort.

“It is, and we’re behaving like idiots,
wasting time that may be valuable. Get hold
and lift him in; his house is scarcely a mile away.”

They had some difficulty in getting the unconscious
man into the car; and then its owner backed it twice
into a bank before he succeeded in turning round,
but in three or four minutes they carried Herbert into
Brantholme, and afterward drove away at top speed in
search of assistance. It was, however, an hour
later when they returned with a doctor, and he looked
grave after he had examined his patient.

“Your husband has two ribs broken,” he
told Mrs. Lansing. “In a way, that’s
not very serious, but he seems to be prostrated by
the shock. There are a few things that must be
done at once; and then we’ll have to keep him
as quiet as possible.”

It was two hours later when he left the house, promising
to return early the next day with a nurse; and Herbert
lay, still and unconscious, in a dimly lighted room.

CHAPTER XVII

HERBERT IS PATIENT

On the second morning after the accident, Herbert,
lying stiffly swathed in bandages, opened his eyes
in a partly darkened room. A nurse was standing
near a table, and when the injured man painfully turned
his head, the doctor, who had been speaking to her,
came toward him.

“I think we can let you talk a little now,”
he said. “How do you feel?”

Herbert’s face relaxed into a feeble smile.

“Very far from happy. I suppose I’ve
been badly knocked about?”

“I’ve treated more serious cases, and
you’ll get over it. But you’ll have
to reconcile yourself to lying quiet for a long while.”

Herbert made no reply to this, but his expression
suggested that he was trying to think.

“Has the thing got into the papers?” he
asked.

The doctor was a little surprised; it seemed a curious
point for his patient to take an interest in, but
he was willing to indulge him.

“It’s early yet, but one of the Courier
people stopped me as I was driving out and I gave
him a few particulars. You can’t hush the
matter up.”

Page 91

“If I did, you wouldn’t understand it,”
said the doctor, who generally adopted a cheerful,
half-humorous tone. “In plain English,
you have two ribs broken, besides a number of contusions,
and I’m inclined to suspect your nervous system
has received a nasty shock.”

“And the cure?”

“Complete rest, patience, and perhaps a change
of scene when you’re able to get about.”

“That means I’ll have to drop all active
interest in my business for some time?”

“I’m afraid so; by and by we’ll
consider when you can resume it.”

It struck the doctor that Herbert was not displeased
with the information; and that seemed strange, considering
that he was a busy, energetic man. He lay silent
a while with an undisturbed expression.

“I wonder if you would write a telegram and
a letter for me?” he asked at length.

“With pleasure, if you don’t think you
have talked enough. Can’t you wait until
to-morrow?”

“I’ll feel easier when I’ve got
it off my mind.”

The doctor thought this likely. He made a sign
of acquiescence and took out his notebook; and Herbert
give him the rubber company’s London address
and then dictated:

“Regret I am incapacitated for business for
indefinite period by motor accident. If advisable
appoint new director in my place before shareholders’
meeting, which cannot attend. Compelled to remain
in strict quietness.”

“You might send these people a short note,”
he added, “stating that I’m submitting
to your advice, and giving them a few particulars about
my injuries.”

“I’ll be glad to do so.”

“Then there’s only another thing.
I’d like some notice of the accident put into
a leading London paper—­it will explain my
retirement to people who would soon begin to wonder
why I wasn’t at my post.”

“It shall be attended to; but I scarcely think
Mr. Phillips and his motoring friend will appreciate
the notoriety you will confer on them.”

Herbert smiled.

“There’s no reason why I should consider
Phillips. If he will drive furiously in the
dark and run over people—­this isn’t
his first accident—­he must take the consequences.
But you can tell him, with my compliments, that I’ll
let him off, if he’ll be more cautious in future.
Now I feel that I’d like to rest or go to sleep
again.”

The doctor went out somewhat puzzled—­his
patient seemed singularly resigned to inaction and
glad to escape from commercial affairs, instead of
chafing at his misfortune. After exchanging a
few words with Mrs. Lansing, he met Sylvia in the
hall.

“How is he this morning?” she asked.

“Better than I expected, able to take an interest
in things. I was glad to find him so acquiescent—­it
isn’t usual. He didn’t seem disturbed
when he asked me to write a telegram expressing his
willingness to give up his director’s post.”

Page 92

He had not mentioned this matter to Mrs. Lansing.
In several ways Sylvia struck him as being the more
capable woman, though this was not the impression
her appearance had upon the less practised observers.
She looked thoughtful at his news.

“I suppose such a course is necessary,”
she remarked.

“I believe it’s advisable; that is, if
there’s any likelihood that his duties will
make much demand on him for some time to come.”

Sylvia changed the subject.

“Have you any particular instructions?”

“None beyond those I’ve given the nurse.
Quietness is the great thing; but it doesn’t
look as if he’ll cause you much trouble.”

The prediction was justified. With the exception
of a few complaints about his physical discomfort,
Herbert displayed an exemplary patience and soon began
to improve, for his recovery was assisted by the tranquil
state of his mind. The accident had happened
at a very opportune time: it furnished an excellent
excuse for withdrawing from an embarrassing situation
and it would save his credit, if, as seemed probable,
difficulties shortly threatened the rubber company.
It would look as if any trouble that might fall upon
the concern was the result of his having been forced
to relinquish control, and nobody could rationally
blame him for being run over.

He was lying in a sunny room one afternoon when two
gentlemen were shown in. One was the caller
with whom he had an interview in his office before
the accident. They inquired about his progress
with rather forced courtesy; and then one of them
said:

“We looked in on the doctor who wrote to us
about your injury before we came here, and he told
us you were strong enough for a little quiet conversation.
We haven’t appointed another director yet.”

“Then you had better do so,” Herbert advised.

“You mean to stick to your withdrawal?
You’re the only person who can pull the company
out of its difficulties.”

“Has it got into any difficulties?” Herbert
inquired. “You see, I’ve been compelled
to give orders for all correspondence to be dealt with
at the London office, and I’m advised not to
read the financial papers or anything that might have
a disturbing effect.”

The man who had not yet spoken betrayed some impatience.

“We’re up to the eyes in trouble, as you
must have guessed. Have you asked yourself what
the body of the shareholders are likely to think?”

“It’s fairly obvious. They’ll
consider it a misfortune that I was knocked over shortly
before a critical time; possibly they’ll attribute
everything unsatisfactory in the company’s affairs
to my not being in charge.”

One of the visitors glanced meaningly at his companion.
There was truth in what Lansing said. The angry
shareholders would not discriminate carefully; they
would blame the present directors, who would have
to face a serious loss while Lansing had made a profit.
It was a galling situation; and what made it worse
was that Lansing’s expression hinted that he
found it somewhat humorous.

Page 93

“The fact that you sold out so soon before the
fall will have its significance,” said the first
man. “The thing has a suspicious look.”

“I must risk a certain amount of misconception,”
Herbert replied languidly. “I may as well
point out that I still hold the shares required as
a director’s qualification, which is all it was
necessary for me to do. Was it your intention
to keep the stock you hold permanently?”

They could not answer him, and he smiled.

“As a matter of fact, we all intended to sell
off a good portion as soon as the premium justified
it; the only difference of opinion was about the point
it must reach, and that, of course, was a matter of
temperament. Well, I was lucky enough to get
rid of part of my stock at a profit; and there was
nothing to prevent your doing the same. Instead
of that, you held on until the drop came; it was an
imprudence for which you can’t blame me.”

“Our complaint is that you foresaw the fall
and never said a word.”

“Granted. Why didn’t you foresee
it? You had the right of access to all the information
in my hands; you could inspect accounts in the London
office; I suppose you read the financial papers.
It would have been presumptuous if I’d recommended
you to sell, and my forecast might have proved incorrect.
In that case you would have blamed me for losing
your money.”

This was incontestable. Though they knew he
had betrayed them, Lansing’s position was too
strong to be assailed.

“You might have mentioned that you contemplated
retiring from the board,” one remarked.
“Then we would have known what to expect.”

“A little reflection will show the futility
of your suggestion. How could I contemplate
being run over by a motor-car?”

“Well,” said the second man in a grim
tone, “you can’t deny the accident was
in some respects a fortunate one for you.”

“I’m doubtful whether you would have appreciated
it, in my place. But you don’t seem to
realize that I’m withdrawing from the board because
I’m incapacitated for the duties.”

Then the nurse, to whom Herbert had given a hint,
came in; and he made a sign of resignation, quite
as though overpowered by regret.

“I’m sorry I’m not allowed to talk
very much yet. Will you have a cigar and some
refreshment before you leave?”

His visitors rose, and one of them turned to him with
a curious expression.

“No, thanks,” he said pointedly.
“Considering everything, I don’t think
we’ll give you the trouble.”

With a few conventional words they withdrew, and Herbert
smiled at the nurse.

“I believe Dr. Ballin was most concerned about
the injury to my nerves,” he said. “Have
you noticed anything wrong with them?”

“Not lately. They seem to be in a normal
state.”

“That,” said Herbert, “is my own
opinion. You wouldn’t imagine that I had
just finished a rather trying interview?”

Page 94

“No; you look more amused than upset.”

“There was something humorous in the situation;
that’s often the case when you see greedy people
wasting effort and ingenuity. Perhaps you heard
my visitors expressing their anxiety about my health,
though I’ve a suspicion that they felt more
like wishing the car had made an end of me.”

The nurse laughed and told him that he had better
rest; and Herbert lay back upon the cushions she arranged,
with calm content.

During the evening, Sylvia entered the room, dressed
a little more carefully than usual, and Herbert glanced
at her with appreciation.

“With Muriel, to dine with the Wests; have you
forgotten? But I came in because Muriel told
me you had a letter from George by the last post.”

“So you’re still interested in his doings,”
Herbert rejoined.

“Of course. Does that surprise you?”

“I was beginning to think there was some risk
of your forgetting him, which, perhaps, wouldn’t
be altogether unnatural. He’s a long way
off, which has often its effect, and there’s
no denying the fact that in many respects you and
he are different.”

“Doesn’t the same thing apply to you and
Muriel? Everybody knows you get on excellently
in spite of it.”

Herbert laughed. He was aware that his friends
had wondered why he had married Muriel, and suspected
that some of them believed her money had tempted him.
Nevertheless, he made her an affectionate as well
as a considerate husband. In business matters
he practised the easy morality of a hungry beast of
prey, but he had his virtues.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s true.
Do you find it encouraging?”

Sylvia had felt a little angry, though she had known
that it was seldom wise to provoke her host.

Without waiting for her answer he continued, half
seriously: “There’s often one person
who thinks better of us than we deserve, and I dare
say I’m fortunate in that respect. In such
a case, one feels it an obligation not to abuse that
person’s confidence.”

A slight flush crept into Sylvia’s face.
George believed in her and she was very shabbily
rewarding his trust.

“I’m surprised to hear you moralizing.
It’s not a habit of yours,” she remarked.

“No,” said Herbert, pointedly; “though
it may now and then make one feel a little uncomfortable,
it seldom does much good. But we were talking
about George. He tells me that winter’s
beginning unusually soon; they’ve had what he
calls a severe cold snap and the prairie’s deep
with snow. He bought some more stock and young
horses as an offset to the bad harvest, and he’s
doubtful whether he has put up hay enough. West
and he are busy hauling stove-wood home from a bluff;
and he has had a little trouble with some shady characters
as a result of his taking part in a temperance campaign.
I think that’s all he has to say.”

Page 95

Sylvia broke into half-incredulous merriment.

“It’s hard to imagine George as a temperance
reformer. Think of him, making speeches!”

“Speeches aren’t much in George’s
line,” Herbert admitted. “Still,
in one way, I wasn’t greatly astonished at the
news. He’s just the man to be drawn into
difficulties he might avoid, provided that somebody
could convince him the thing needed doing.”

“Then you think he has been convinced?”

“I can hardly imagine George’s setting
out on a work of the kind he mentioned without some
persuasion,” said Herbert with a smile.
“The subject’s not one he ever took much
interest in, and he’s by no means original.”

Sylvia agreed with him, but she was silent a few moments,
reclining in an easy chair before the cheerful fire,
while she glanced round the room. It was comfortably
furnished, warm, and brightly lighted; a strong contrast
to the lonely Canadian homestead to which her thoughts
wandered. She could recall the unpolished stove,
filling the place with its curious, unpleasant smell,
and the icy draughts that eddied about it. She
could imagine the swish of driving snow about the
quivering wooden building when the dreaded blizzards
raged; the strange, oppressive silence when the prairie
lay still in the grip of the Arctic frost; and George
coming in with half-frozen limbs and snow-dust on
his furs, to spend the dreary evening in trying to
keep warm. The picture her memory painted was
vivid and it had a disturbing effect. It was
in her service that the man was toiling in western
Canada.

“Well,” she said, rising with some abruptness,
“it’s time we got off. I’d
better see if Muriel is ready.”

CHAPTER XVIII

BLAND MAKES A SACRIFICE

Sylvia was sitting by the hearth in Ethel West’s
drawing-room, her neatly shod feet on the fender,
her low chair on the fleecy rug, and she made a very
dainty and attractive picture. She felt the cold
and hated discomfort of any kind, though it was characteristic
of her that she generally succeeded in avoiding it.
Ethel sat near by, watching her with calmly curious
eyes, for Sylvia was looking pensive. Mrs. Lansing
was talking to Stephen West on the opposite side of
the large room.

“How is Edgar getting on?” Sylvia asked.
“I suppose you hear from him now and then.”

Ethel guessed where the question led and responded
with blunt directness.

“Doesn’t George write to you?”

“Not often. Herbert has just got a letter,
but there was very little information in it; George
is not a brilliant correspondent. I thought
Edgar might have written by the same mail.”

“As it happens, he did,” said Ethel.
“He describes the cold as fierce, and gives
some interesting details of his sensations when the
warmth first comes back to his half-frozen hands or
limbs; then he adds a vivid account of a blizzard
that George and he nearly got lost in.”

Page 96

“Things of that kind make an impression on a
new-comer,” Sylvia languidly remarked.
“One gets used to them after a while.
Did he say anything else?”

“There was an enthusiastic description of a
girl he has met; he declares she’s a paragon.
This, of course, is nothing new, but it’s a
little astonishing that he doesn’t seem to contemplate
making love to her in his usual haphazard manner.
She seems to have inspired him with genuine respect.”

“I can’t think of any girl who’s
likely to do so.”

“He gives her name—­Flora Grant.”

Sylvia betrayed some interest.

“I knew her—­I suppose she is a little
less impossible than the rest. But go on.”

“One gathers that George is having an anxious
time; Edgar goes into some obscure details about crops
and cattle-raising. Then he hints at some exciting
adventures they have had as a result of supporting
a body that’s trying to close the hotels.”

This was what Sylvia had been leading up to.
She agreed with Herbert that it was most unlikely
George would take any part in such proceedings without
some prompting, and she was curious to learn who had
influenced him.

“There was a word or two in Herbert’s
letter to the same effect,” she said.
“The thing strikes one as amusing. George,
of course, does not explain why he joined these people.”

A smile of rather malicious satisfaction crept into
Ethel’s eyes. “According to Edgar,
it was because his neighbors, the Grants, urged it.
The father of the girl he mentioned seems to be a
leader in the movement.”

Sylvia carefully suppressed any sign of the annoyance
she felt. It was, of course, impossible that
George should be seriously attracted by Flora, but
his action implied that he and the Grants must be good
friends. No doubt, he met the girl every now
and then, and they had much in common. Sylvia
did not mean to marry George; but it was pleasant
to feel that she could count on his devotion, and she
resented the idea of his falling under the influence
of anybody else. She had never thought of Flora
as dangerous—­George was so steadfast—­but
she now realized that there might, perhaps, be some
slight risk. A girl situated as Flora was would,
no doubt, make the most of her opportunities.
Sylvia grew somewhat angry; she felt she was being
badly treated.

“After all,” she said calmly, “I
suppose there’s no reason why George shouldn’t
set up as a reformer if it pleases him. It must,
however, be rather a novelty for your brother.”

Ethel laughed.

“I believe it’s the excitement that has
tempted him, Still, if George is taking any active
part in the matter, Edgar will probably find it more
than a light diversion.” Then she changed
the subject. “Did I tell you that we expect
Captain Bland to-night?”

Sylvia started slightly. She was aware that
Ethel took what could best be described as an unsympathetic
interest in her affairs, but the sudden reference
to Bland threw her off her guard.

Page 97

“No,” she said. “Though you
have met him, I didn’t think you knew him well.”

“I believe it’s chiefly a business visit.
Stephen, you know, has some reputation as a commercial
lawyer, and Bland couldn’t arrange to see him
in town. Anyway, he should be here soon.”

Bland arrived half an hour later, but was unable to
do more than shake hands with Sylvia before West took
him away to another room. It was some time before
they returned; and then West kept the party engaged
in general conversation until it broke up.

“I’ll walk down the road with you,”
he said to Mrs. Lansing, and afterward turned to Bland.
“How are you going to get back?”

Bland said that the man who had driven him from the
station was waiting in the neighboring village, and
when they left the house he walked on with Sylvia,
leaving Mrs. Lansing and West to follow. It was
a clear night, with a chill of frost in the air.
A bright half-moon hung above the shadowy hills,
and the higher boughs of the bare trees cut in sharp
tracery against the sky. Dead leaves lay thick
upon the road and here and there a belt of mist trailed
across a meadow. Sylvia, however, did not respond
when her companion said something about the charm of
the walk.

“Why didn’t you send me word you were
coming?” she asked.

“I didn’t know until this morning, when
I got a note from West, and I must be back in time
for tomorrow’s parade. Besides, you told
me at the junction that I was not to be allowed to
meet you again for some time.”

Sylvia smiled at him.

“Haven’t you found out that you needn’t
take everything I say too literally?”

Bland stopped, pressing the hand on his arm.

“Does that apply to all you said on the evening
when we sat outside the inn?”

“No,” answered Sylvia firmly. “It
does not; please understand that. I must stick
to what I told you then.” She paused, and
they heard the soft fall of approaching feet before
she resumed with a laugh: “Go on, if you
don’t want the others to think we are waiting
for them.”

Bland obeyed, a little soothed, though he saw she
was not yet ready to allow a renewal of his pleading.
Sylvia had obviously meant that she wished to be
left alone with him.

“Why did you call on Stephen West?” she
asked, presently.

“I’d meant to tell you. But, first
of all, is Lansing still connected with the rubber
company? West didn’t seem very well informed
upon the point.”

“Neither am I,” replied Sylvia thoughtfully.
“I only know he hasn’t the large interest
in it that he had.”

“Then I’ll have to explain, because I
don’t know what to do. Lansing gave me
a tip to buy some shares, and when some friends said
I’d got a good thing, I went to him again.
I must say he was pretty guarded, but I got a hint
and acted on it, with the result that I have dropped
a good deal of money. This,” he added
deprecatingly, “is not the kind of thing I should
talk to you about, but I was told that Lansing couldn’t
receive any callers, and you’ll see why you should
know.”

Page 98

“I’m beginning to understand.”

“Well,” said Bland, “shortly after
Lansing’s accident, I wrote to the secretary,
asking some questions, and he doesn’t seem to
have been cautious enough in his answer—­I
have it here. There has been trouble about the
company, and I attended a meeting of some disgusted
people who had put their money into it. They
think they might get part of it back by attacking
the promoters, and I’m told that my letter would
help them materially.”

“Do you want to help them?”

“In a way, it’s natural,” said Bland
with signs of warmth. “I don’t see
why those fellows should be allowed to get off after
tricking people out of the money they’ve painfully
earned.”

“How much money have you ever earned?”

Bland laughed.

“You have me there; I haven’t been able
to buy shares out of my pay. But I made a pot
by taking long chances when I backed an outside horse.
It comes to much the same thing.”

“I don’t think it does,” said Sylvia,
with a smile. “But it strikes me that
your explanation isn’t quite complete.”

“I went to West, instead of to another lawyer,
because I thought he would be acquainted with Lansing’s
present position; but, while he agreed that the letter
might be valuable to the objectors, he couldn’t
help me. The end of it is that I don’t
want to do anything that might hurt Lansing.”

Sylvia reflected. She hardly thought his loss
would seriously embarrass Bland; she owed Herbert
something and might need his aid, and she did not
wish any discredit to be cast upon a connection of
hers.

“Well,” she said, “I believe Herbert
is still to some extent connected with the company;
he can hardly have withdrawn altogether. Anyway,
he had a large interest in it, and I think its management
was in his hands. He might suffer, so to speak,
retrospectively.”

“Yes,” said Bland, “that didn’t
strike me. You’re right; there’s
only one course open.” He took a paper
from his pocket and handed it to her. “Give
that to Lansing, and tell him he may do what he thinks
fit with it.”

“You’re very generous,” said Sylvia,
coloring as she took the letter.

“I’m afraid I’ve behaved badly in
not keeping the thing from you; but you see how I
was situated, and you’ll have to forgive me.”

“That isn’t difficult,” Sylvia told
him.

They walked on in silence for a while; and then Bland
looked around at her.

“There’s a thing I must mention.
I’ve had a hint to ask for a certain post abroad.
It is not a very desirable one in some respects, but
the pay’s pretty good, and it would bring the
man who took it under the notice of people who arrange
the better Government appointments. I should
have to stay out at least two years.”

Sylvia was startled, and annoyed. Now that the
man owned her sway, she did not mean to accede to
his wishes too readily. Some obscure reason
made her shrink from definitely binding herself to
him, but his intimation had forced on something of
the nature of a crisis.

Page 99

“Do you wish to go?” she asked.

“No,” he said hotly; “you know that.”

“Then,” said Sylvia softly, “I think
you had better stay at home.”

He stopped again and faced her.

“You must tell me what you mean!”

“It ought to be clear,” she murmured,
“Don’t you think I should miss you?”

With restrained quietness he laid his hand on her
shoulder.

“You must listen for a minute, Sylvia.
Up to the present, I’ve been passed over by
the authorities; but now I’ve been given my chance.
If I can hammer the raw native levies into shape
and keep order along a disturbed frontier, it will
lead to something better. Now, I’m neither
a military genius nor altogether a careless idler—­I
believe I can do this work; but, coming rather late,
it has less attraction for me. Well, I would
let the chance slip, for one reason only; but if I’m
to go on continually repressing myself and only allowed
to see you at long intervals, I might as well go away.
You must clearly understand on what terms I remain.”

She made a little appealing gesture.

“Yes,” she said; “but you must wait
and not press me too hard. I am so fenced in
by conventions; so many people’s susceptibilities
have to be considered. I haven’t a girl’s
liberty.”

Bland supposed this was as far as she ventured in
allusion to her widowed state; but, stirred as he
was by her implied submission, it struck him as significant
that she should so clearly recognize the restrictions
conventionality imposed on her.

“I think,” he returned, “the two
people who deserve most consideration are you and
myself.”

“Ah!” said Sylvia, “you deserve
it most. You have been very forbearing; you
have done all I asked. That is why I know you
will bear with a little delay, when it’s needful.”

He made a sign of reluctant assent; and then, to his
annoyance, two figures emerged from the shadow of
the trees not far away. There was nothing to
do except to move on, but he thrilled at the slight,
grateful pressure of Sylvia’s hand upon his arm.

“My dear,” he said, “I wish most
devoutly that West or Mrs. Lansing had been lame.”

Sylvia broke into a ripple of laughter, which somehow
seemed to draw them closer. At Herbert’s
gate they separated, and Bland walked on in an exultant
mood which was broken by fits of thoughtfulness.
Sylvia had tacitly pledged herself to him, but he
was still her unacknowledged lover and the position
was irksome. Then he remembered her collectedness,
which had been rather marked, but he had learned that
emotion is more frequently concealed than forcibly
expressed. Moreover, he had never imagined that
Sylvia was wholly free from faults; he suspected that
there was a vein of calculating coldness in her, though
it caused him no concern. Bland was a man of
experience who had acquired a good-humored toleration
with the knowledge that one must not expect too much
from human nature.

Page 100

While Bland was being driven to the station, Sylvia
entered the room where Herbert lay, and handed him
the letter.

“Captain Bland came in during the evening to
see Stephen and sent you this,” she said.
“He told me you were to do what you thought
fit with it.”

Herbert perused the letter, and then reaching out
with some difficulty, flung it into the fire.

“I’ve taken him at his word,” he
said. “Have you read the thing?”

“No; I fear the details would have puzzled me;
but I understand its general import. How was
it your secretary was so careless?”

Herbert smiled.

“The man’s smart enough, as a rule; but
we all have our weak moments. This, however,
is not the kind of thing that’s likely to lead
to his advancement.” He lay quiet for
a moment or two; and then went on: “I’m
grateful to you. Had you much trouble in persuading
Bland to let you have the letter?”

“No; he offered it voluntarily.”

“Then the man must have been desperately anxious
to please you. It looks as if his condition
were getting serious.”

“I resent coarseness,” exclaimed Sylvia.

Herbert laughed.

“Oh,” he said, “you and I can face
the truth. As West’s a lawyer, Bland’s
visit to him is, of course, significant; the man knew
that letter might have been worth something in hard
cash to him, as well as affording him the satisfaction
of making things hot for the directors of the company,
among whom I was included. He would hardly have
parted with it unless he had a strong inducement.”

“His motives don’t concern you,”
retorted Sylvia.

“You ought to appreciate his action.”

“I appreciate it as sincerely as I do yours,
because you must have shown that you didn’t
want him to use the letter, though I’m inclined
to think your motives were rather mixed; one could
scarcely expect them all to be purely benevolent.”

Sylvia smiled. He was keen-witted and she found
something amusing in the ironical good-humor which
often characterized him.

“Anyhow,” he continued, “you’re
a staunch and capable ally, and as that gives you
a claim on me, you won’t find me reluctant to
do my part whenever the time comes.”

Then Mrs. Lansing came in, and on the whole Sylvia
was glad of the interruption. Herbert’s
remarks were now and then unpleasantly suggestive.
He had called her his ally, but she felt more like
his accomplice, which was much less flattering.

CHAPTER XIX

AN OPPOSITION MOVE

Page 101

It was a wet and chilly night, and Singleton sat in
an easy chair beside the hearth in his city quarters
with an old pipe in his hand. The room was shabbily
furnished, the hearthrug had a hole in it, the carpet
was threadbare, and Singleton’s attire harmonized
with his surroundings, though the box of cigars and
one or two bottles and siphons on the table suggested
that he expected visitors. The loose Tuxedo
jacket he had bought in America was marked by discolored
patches; his carpet slippers were dilapidated.
His means, though long restricted, would have warranted
better accommodations; but his clothes were comfortable
and he did not think it worth while to put on anything
smarter. There was a vein of rather bitter pride
in the man, and he would not, out of deference to
any other person’s views, alter conditions that
suited him.

A notebook lay beside him and several bulky treatises
on botany were scattered about, but he had ceased
work and was thinking. After the shadow and
silence of the tropical bush, to which he was most
accustomed, the rattle of the traffic in the wet street
below was stimulating; but his reflections were not
pleasant. He had waited patiently for another
invitation to Lansing’s house, which had not
arrived, and a day or two ago he had met Sylvia Marston,
upon whom his mind had steadily dwelt, in a busy street.
She had bowed to him courteously, but she had made
it clear that she did not expect him to stop and speak.
It had been a bitter moment to Singleton, but he had
calmly faced the truth. He had served his purpose,
and he had been dropped. Now, however, a letter
from one of the people he was expecting indicated
that he might again be drawn into the rubber-exploiting
scheme.

The two gentlemen who had called on Herbert were shown
in presently.

“It was I who wrote you,” the first of
them said; “this is my colleague, Mr. Nevis.”

Singleton bowed.

“Will you take that chair, Mr. Jackson?”
He turned to the other man. “I think you
had better have this one; it’s comparatively
sound.”

He was aware that they were looking about his apartment
curiously, and no doubt inferring something from its
condition; but this was of no consequence. He
had learned his value and meant to insist on it, without
the assistance of any signs of prosperity.

“I couldn’t get up to town, as you suggested,”
he resumed when they were seated. “I’ve
been rather busy of late.”

“That’s generally the case with us,”
Jackson said pointedly.

He was a thin man, very neatly and quietly dressed,
with a solemn face and an air of importance.
Nevis was stouter and more florid, with a brisker
manner, but the stamp of the city was plainly set on
both.

“Well,” said Singleton, “I’m
at your service, now you’re here. The
cigars are nearest you, Mr. Nevis, and I can recommend
the contents of the smaller bottle. It’s
a Southern speciality and rather difficult to get
in England.”

Page 102

Nevis hesitated. He thought it better that the
interview should be conducted on strictly business
lines, while to accept the proffered hospitality would
tend to place him and the man he wished to deal with
on a footing of social equality. But it was desirable
not to offend Singleton, and he lighted a cigar.

“To begin with, I must ask if you are still
in any way connected with Mr. Lansing?” he said.

“No,” answered Singleton with some grimness.
“You can take it for granted that he has done
with me.”

“That clears the ground. We have been
considering the report you wrote for him. In
our opinion, it was, while not encouraging, hardly
sufficient to warrant his abandoning the project, in
which, as you have been told, we were associated with
him.”

“He may have had other motives,” Singleton
suggested.

Nevis nodded gravely, as if in appreciation of his
keenness.

“That,” he said, “is what occurred
to us. But what is your idea of the scheme?”

“It’s clearly stated in the report.”

Jackson made a sign of impatience.

“We’ll leave the report out and come to
the point. Can the rubber, which you say is
really to be found, be collected and brought down to
the coast without incurring a prohibitive expense?”

“Yes,” said Singleton. “But
you must understand me. The methods generally
adopted in such cases would be bound to fail.
You would require an overseer with rather exceptional
technical knowledge, who must, besides this, be quite
free from the usual prejudices on the native question.
They would, no doubt, be a little difficult to avoid,
since at first he would have to put up with a few attempts
upon his life; but, if he could combine resolution
and strict justice with a conciliatory attitude, the
attempt would cease, and I think he could earn you
a fair return on a moderate outlay.”

Jackson laughed.

“So far as my experience goes, such men are
scarce. But I’d better say that we had
you in mind when we made this visit. Do you think
you could do anything, if we sent you out?”

“Yes,” said Singleton quietly; “I
believe I could make the venture pay. Whether
I’d think it worth while is another matter.”

“Then,” Nevis interposed, “it’s
simply a question of terms?”

“Oh, no. You may be surprised to hear
that payment is not the first consideration; though
it’s true. I’m interested in certain
investigations which can be carried out only in the
tropics. However, you’d better make your
offer.”

Nevis did so, and Singleton pondered for a few moments.

“The remuneration might suffice, provided that
I was given a percentage on the product and one or
two special allowances; but before going any farther
I must understand your intentions. I’m
a botanist, and have no wish to be made use of merely
for the purpose of furthering some stock-jobbing scheme.
Do you really want this venture put upon a satisfactory
working footing?”

Page 103

“I’ll explain,” said Nevis.
“The fact is, Lansing let us in rather badly.
We spent a good deal of money over this concession,
and we’re anxious to get it back. Since
we can’t float the thing on the market at present,
we have formed a small private syndicate to develop
the property, though we may sell out in a year or
two if you can make the undertaking commercially successful.
I think you could count on the purchasers’
continuing operations.”

“Have you considered what Lansing’s attitude
may be?”

“It won’t matter. He has gone out
of the business, convinced that the thing’s
no good; he cleared off most of his rubber shares,
for a similar reason. This raises another point—­the
original company’s possessions lie in the same
region, though ruled by another state, and things
are going badly there. If you could get across
and see what could be done, we would pay an extra
fee.”

Singleton lighted a cigar and leaned back in his chair
with a thoughtful expression, and for a minute or
two they left him alone. They were keen business
men, but they knew that their usual methods would
not serve them with this shabbily-dressed, self-possessed
botanist.

“Well,” he said at length, “your
suggestion rather appeals to me, but there’s
the difficulty that another matter claims my attention.
Though it isn’t strictly in my line, I’ve
been asked to go out to Canada and assist in the production
of a variety of wheat that will ripen quickly; in
fact, I was looking up some information bearing on
the matter when you came in. It’s a remarkably
interesting subject.”

They were clever enough to see that this was not an
attempt to enhance the value of his services; the
man was obviously a botanical enthusiast, and Nevis
showed signs of attention. He had once or twice
thought that something might be made out of Canadian
land companies.

“One could imagine that,” he said.
“I understand that it’s a matter of high
importance.”

“The development of the whole northern portion
of the prairie country depends on the success of the
experiments that are being made,” Singleton
went on. “Their summers are hot but short;
if they can get a grain that ripens early, they can
cultivate vast stretches of land that are now, from
economic reasons, uninhabitable, and it would make
farming a more prosperous business in other tracts.
Crops growing in the favored parts are occasionally
frozen. It’s a coincidence that a day
or two ago I got a letter inquiring about that kind
of wheat from a friend in Canada who is, as it happens,
farming with a cousin of Lansing’s.”
Then he laughed. “All this, however, has
nothing to do with the object of your visit.
Give me a few more minutes to think it over.”

There was silence except for the rattle of wheels
outside while he smoked half a cigar; then he turned
to his companions.

“I’ll go out and undertake your work.
I believe you’re acting wisely, and that Lansing
will be sorry after a while that he threw away his
interest in the scheme.”

Page 104

They discussed the details of the project and then
the business men went away, satisfied. Shortly
afterward Singleton took a letter out of a paper rack,
and when he had read it he leaned back in his chair,
lost in pleasant recollections. Some years earlier,
he had by chance fallen in with a lad named West when
fishing among the Scottish hills. The young
man’s sister and elder brother were staying with
him at the remote hotel in which Singleton had quarters,
and somewhat to his astonishment they soon made friends
with him.

Poverty had made him reserved; he knew that he was
a little awkward and unpolished, but the Wests had
not attempted to patronize him. Their cordiality
set him at his ease; he liked the careless, good-humored
lad; Ethel West, grave-eyed, direct, and candid, made
a strong impression, and he had been drawn to the
quiet lawyer who was much older than either.
They spent delightful days together on the lake and
among the hills; Singleton told them something about
his studies and ambitions, and in the evenings they
persuaded him to sing. Ethel was a musician
and Singleton sang well. On leaving they had
invited him to visit them; but, partly from diffidence,
Singleton had not gone, though he knew these were
not the people who took a man up when he could be of
service and afterward dropped him.

Now he had received a letter from Edgar West, saying
that he was farming in western Canada and inquiring
if Singleton could tell him anything about the drought-resisting
and quick-ripening properties of certain varieties
of wheat. The botanist was glad to place his
knowledge at his friend’s disposal, and, taking
up pen and paper, he spent an hour on a treatise on
the subject, which was to save Lansing expense and
trouble, and bring Singleton further communications
from Edgar. Then he smoked another pipe and
went to bed; and a fortnight later he sailed for the
tropics.

Shortly after he had gone, Herbert heard of his departure,
and the letter containing the news arrived on a cheerless
afternoon during which his doctor had visited him.
After the doctor left, Herbert entered the room where
his wife and Sylvia were, and took his place in an
easy chair by a window. Outside, the lawn was
covered with half-melted snow and the trees raised
naked, dripping branches above the drooping shrubs.
Farther back the hedgerows ran somberly across the
white fields, and in the distance the hills loomed,
desolate and gray, against a leaden sky.

“Ballin says I’d better take it easy for
some time yet,” Herbert informed his wife.
“In fact, he recommends a trip abroad; Algiers
or Egypt, for preference.” He indicated
the dreary prospect outside the window. “Though
he didn’t actually insist on my going, the idea’s
attractive.”

“Could you leave your business?” Mrs.
Lansing inquired.

Herbert smiled.

“Yes; I think so. I was doing pretty well
when I got run over, and things have since slackened
down. My manager can look after them while I
am away.”

Page 105

This was correct, so far as it went; but he had another
reason for deciding not to resume operations for a
while. He suspected that his recent conduct
had excited distrust and indignation in certain quarters,
but this would, no doubt, blow over before his return.
People forgot, and he could avoid those whose confidence
in him had proved expensive,

“If that’s the case, we may as well get
off as soon as it can be arranged,” said Mrs.
Lansing. She turned to Sylvia. “Of
course, you will come with us.”

Sylvia hesitated. She believed her influence
over Bland would not weaken much in her absence; but,
after all, it was wiser to run no risk. Moreover,
she would, to some extent, feel her separation from
the man.

“I really don’t know what I ought to do,”
she answered. “I might be a restraint
upon you—­you can’t want me always
at hand; and I could spend a month or two with Dorothy.
She has several times told me to come.”

“You would be better with us,” Mrs. Lansing
rejoined with firmness; and Sylvia suspected her of
a wish to prevent her enjoying Bland’s society.

“I’ll think it over,” she said.

After they had discussed the projected journey, Mrs.
Lansing withdrew on some domestic errand, and Herbert
turned to Sylvia.

“I needn’t point out that you’ll
be no trouble to us, but perhaps I’d better
mention that I had a letter from George this post.
As there’s very little to be done until the
spring, he thinks of coming over. I don’t
know how far that may affect your decision.”

Sylvia was a little startled, but she reflected rapidly.
The house of the relative she had thought of visiting
would be open to George, as would be one or two others
in which she might stay a while. It was most
undesirable that he should encounter Bland, which would
be likely to happen. Then it struck her that
Herbert might derive as little satisfaction from his
cousin’s visit as it would afford her.

“Have you succeeded in selling George’s
shares yet?” she asked, and though this was,
on the face of it, an abrupt change of subject, she
thought Herbert would follow the sequence of ideas.

“No,” he answered, with a smile of comprehension.
“It was too late when I was able to attend
to things; they have dropped to such a price that
I’ll have to keep them. I’m afraid
it will be a blow to George, and he’s having
trouble enough already with your farm; but, luckily,
some other shares I bought on his account show signs
of a marked improvement before long.”

Sylvia inferred from this that he had not informed
his cousin of the state of his affairs, and did not
wish to see him until the improvement mentioned, or
some other favorable development, should mitigate the
shock of discovering what use Herbert had made of his
powers. It was clear that it rested with her
to decide whether George made the visit or not, because
if she went to Egypt he would remain in Canada.
But she was not quite ready to give her companion
an answer.

Page 106

“Did I tell you that I met Singleton a little
while ago?” she said. “I think he
wished to speak, but I merely bowed. I was in
a hurry, for one thing.”

“It’s the first I’ve heard of it,
but you did quite right. Since he was here,
one or two of the other directors who tried to give
me some trouble have got hold of him. They have
sent him out to see what can be done with the rubber
property.”

“Was that worth while?”

“I shouldn’t think so. It strikes
me they’re wasting their money.”

This was Herbert’s firm belief, but his judgment
while generally accurate, had, in this instance, proved
defective. He had failed properly to estimate
Singleton’s capabilities. It was, however,
obvious to Sylvia that he had had no part in the undertaking,
and had abandoned his rubber schemes, which implied
that George’s loss would be serious. There
was no doubt that it would suit both Herbert and herself
better if George did not come back too soon.

“Well,” she said, “that is not a
matter of any consequence to me. After all, I
think I’ll go south with you and Muriel.”

Herbert had foreseen this decision.

“It’s the most suitable arrangement,”
he responded. “When I write, I’ll
mention it to George.”

Sylvia went out a little later with a sense of guilt;
she felt that in removing the strongest inducement
for George’s visit she had betrayed him.
She was sorry for George, but she could not allow
any consideration for him to interfere with her ambitions.
Then she resolutely drove these thoughts away.
The matter could be looked at in a more pleasant
light, and there were several good reasons for the
course she had adopted.

Entering the library, she carefully wrote a little
note to Captain Bland, and then went in search of
Mrs. Lansing.

“I think I’ll go over to Susan’s
for the week-end,” she announced. “I
promised her another visit, and now I can explain that
I’m going away with you.”

Mrs. Lansing made no objection, and three or four
days afterward Sylvia met Bland at Mrs. Kettering’s
house. He arrived after her, and as there were
other guests, she had to wait a little while before
she could get a word with him alone. She was
standing in the big hall, which was unoccupied, rather
late in the evening, when he came toward her.

“I thought I should never escape from Kettering;
but he’s safe for a while, talking guns in the
smoking-room,” he said.

Sylvia thought that they would be safe from interruption
for a few minutes, which would serve her purpose.

“So you have managed to get here,” she
said.

“Had you any doubt of my succeeding?”
Bland asked reproachfully. “Kettering once
gave me a standing invitation, and, as it happens,
there’s a famous horse dealer in this neighborhood
with whom I’ve had some business. That
and the few Sunday trains formed a good excuse.
I, however, don’t mind in the least if Mrs. Kettering
attaches any significance to the visit.”

Page 107

Sylvia did not wish to arouse the suspicions of her
hostess, but she smiled.

“I expected you, and I’m glad you came,”
she said.

“That’s very nice to hear.”

“Don’t take too much for granted.
Still, I thought I’d like to see you, because
I’m going to Egypt with Muriel for some time.
Indeed, I shall not be back until the spring.”

The man displayed dismayed surprise, and Sylvia waited
for his answer with some eagerness. She did
not wish to enter into a formal engagement—­it
was a little too early to make an announcement yet—­but
she thought it wise to bind him in some degree before
she left.

“Until the spring?” he broke out.
“You expect me to let you go?”

“You must,” said Sylvia firmly, and added
in a softer voice, “I’m rather sorry.”

He saw that he could not shake her decision.

“Then we must have a clear understanding,”
he rejoined hotly. “You know I want you—­when
is this waiting to end? Tell me now, and let
me tell all who care to hear, that you belong to me.”

Sylvia made a gesture of protest and coquettishly
looked down.

“You must still have patience,” she murmured;
“the time will soon pass.”

“And then?” he asked with eagerness.

She glanced up at him shyly.

“If you will ask me again when I come back,
I will give you your answer.”

She left him no reason for doubting what that answer
would be; and, stretching out his arms, he drew her
strongly to him. In a minute or two, however,
Sylvia insisted on his returning to his host, and soon
afterward Mrs. Kettering came in to look for her.

CHAPTER XX

A BLIZZARD

A bitter wind searched the poplar bluff where George
and his hired man, Grierson, were cutting fuel.
Except in the river valleys, trees of any size are
scarce on the prairie, but the slender trunks and leafless
branches were closely massed and afforded a little
shelter. Outside on the open waste, the cold
was almost too severe to face, and George once or
twice glanced anxiously across the snowy levels, looking
for some sign of Edgar, who should have joined them
with the team and sledge. It was, however, difficult
to see far, because a gray dimness narrowed in the
horizon. George stood, dressed in snow-flecked
furs, in the center of a little clearing strewn with
rows of fallen trunks from which he was hewing off
the branches. The work was hard; his whole body
strained with each stroke of the heavy ax, but it failed
to keep him warm, and the wind was growing more bitter
with the approach of night.

“I don’t know what can be keeping West,”
he said after a while. “We haven’t
seen the mail-carrier either, and he’s two hours
late; but he must have had a heavy trail all the way
from the settlement. I expect he’ll cut
out our place and make straight for Grant’s.
We’ll have snow before long.”

Page 108

There was an empty shack not far away where, by George’s
consent, the mail-carrier left letters when bad weather
made it desirable to shorten his round.

Grierson nodded as he glanced about. The stretch
of desolate white prairie had contracted since he
had last noticed it, the surrounding dimness was creeping
nearer in, and the ranks of poplar trunks were losing
their sharpness of form. Now that the men had
ceased chopping, they could hear the eerie moaning
of the wind and the sharp patter of icy snow-dust
among the withered brush.

“It will take him all his time to fetch Grant’s;
I wish Mr. West would come before it gets dark,”
Grierson said with a shiver, and fell to work again.

Several minutes passed. George was thinking
more about the mail-carrier’s movements than
about Edgar’s. The English letters should
have arrived, and he was anxiously wondering if there
were any for him. Then, as he stopped for breath,
a dim moving blur grew out of the prairie, and he
flung down his ax.

“Here’s West; we’ll have light enough
to put up the load,” he said.

A little later Edgar led two powerful horses up the
narrow trail, and for a while the men worked hard,
stacking the logs upon the sledge. Then they
set off at the best pace the team could make, and the
cold struck through them when they left the bluff.

“Stinging, isn’t it?” Edgar remarked.
“I couldn’t get over earlier; Flett turned
up, half frozen, and he kept me. Seems to have
some business in this neighborhood, though he didn’t
say what it is.”

George, walking through the snow to leeward of the
loaded sledge, where it was a little warmer, betrayed
no interest in the news. Temperance reform was
languishing at Sage Butte and its leaders had received
a severe rebuff from the authorities. The police,
who had arrested an Indian suspected of conveying
liquor to the reservation, had been no more successful,
for the man had been promptly acquitted. They
had afterward been kept busy investigating the matter
of the shooting of George’s bull, which had
recovered; but they had found no clue to the offender,
and nothing of importance had happened for some time.

It had grown dark and the wind was rapidly increasing.
Powdery snow drove along before it, obscuring the
men’s sight and lashing their tingling faces.
At times the icy white haze whirled about them so
thick that they could scarcely see the blurred dark
shape of the sledge, but as they had hauled a good
many loads of stovewood home, the trail was plainly
marked. It would be difficult to lose it unless
deep snow fell. With lowered heads and fur caps
pulled well down, they plodded on, until at length
George stopped where the shadowy mass of a bluff loomed
up close in front of them.

“I’ll leave you here and make for the
shack,” he said. “I want to see
if there are any letters.”

“It’s far too risky,” Edgar pointed
out. “You’ll get lost as soon as
you leave the beaten trail.”

Page 109

“I’ll have the bluff for a guide, and
it isn’t far from the end of it to the small
ravine. After that I shouldn’t have much
trouble in striking the fallow.”

“No,” said George, resolutely. “I’ve
waited a week already; the mail is late. Besides,
we’ll have worse snow before morning.”

Seeing that he had made up his mind, Edgar raised
no more objections, and in another few moments George
disappeared into a haze of driving snow. When
he left the trail he found walking more difficult than
he had expected, but though it was hard to see beyond
a few yards, he had the bluff to guide him and he
kept along the edge of it until the trees vanished
suddenly. Then he stopped, buffeted by the wind,
to gather breath and fix clearly in his mind the salient
features of the open space that he must cross.

If he could walk straight for half a mile, he would
strike a small hollow and by following it he would
reach a tract of cultivated ground. This, he
thought, should be marked by the absence of the taller
clumps of grass and the short willow scrub which here
and there broke through the snow. There would
then be a stretch of about two hundred acres to cross
before he found the little shack, whose owner had gone
away to work on the railroad during the winter.
He expected to have some trouble in reaching it,
but he must get the letters, and he set off again,
breaking through the snow-crust in places, and trying
to estimate the time he took.

A quarter of an hour passed and, as there was no sign
of the ravine, he began to wonder whether he had deviated
much from his chosen line. In another few minutes
he was getting anxious; and then suddenly he plunged
knee-deep into yielding snow. It got deeper at
the next step and he knew that he had reached the
shallow depression, which had been almost filled up
by the drifts. He must cross it, and the effort
this entailed left him gasping when he stopped again
on the farther side.

It was still possible to retrace his steps, because
he could hardly fail to strike the bluff he had left,
but there was no doubt that to go on would be perilous.
If he missed the shack, he might wander about the
prairie until he sank down, exhausted; and after a
day of fatiguing labor he knew that he could not long
face the wind and frost. There was, however,
every sign of a wild storm brewing; it might be several
days before he could secure the letters if he turned
back, and such a delay was not to be thought of.

He went on, following the ravine where he could trace
its course, which was not always possible, until he
decided that he must have reached the neighborhood
of the farm. There was, however, nothing to indicate
that he had done so. He could see only a few
yards; the snow had all been smooth and unbroken near
the hollow, he could distinguish no difference between
any one part of it and the rest; and he recognized
the risk he took when he turned his back on his last
guide and struggled forward into the waste.

Page 110

Walking became more difficult, the wind was getting
stronger, and there was no sign of the shack.
Perhaps he had gone too far to the south. He
inclined to the right, but that brought him to nothing
that might serve as a guide; there was only smooth
snow and the white haze whirling round him.
He turned more to the right, growing desperately afraid,
stopped once or twice to ascertain by the way the snow
drove past whether he was wandering from his course,
and plodded on again savagely. At last something
began to crackle beneath his feet. Stooping down,
he saw that it was stubble, and he became sensible
of a vast relief. He could not be more than
a few minutes walk from the shack.

It was only three or four yards off when he saw it,
and on entering he had difficulty in closing the rickety
door. Then, when he had taken off his heavy
mittens, it cost him some trouble to find and strike
a match with his half-frozen hands. Holding
up the light, he glanced eagerly at a shelf and saw
the two letters he had expected; there was no mistaking
the writing and the English stamps. He thrust
them safely into a pocket beneath his furs when the
match went out and struck another, for his next step
required consideration.

The feeble radiance traveled round the little room,
showing the rent, board walls and the beams rough
from the saw that supported the cedar roofing shingles.
A little snow had sifted in and lay on the floor;
there was a rusty stove at one end, but no lamp or
fuel, and the hay and blankets had been removed from
the wooden bunk. Still, as George was warmly
clad and had space to move about, he could pass the
night there. The roar of the wind about the
frail building rendered the prospects of the return
journey strongly discouraging. He might, however,
be detained all the next day by the snow; but what
chiefly urged him to face the risk of starting for
the homestead was his inability to read his letters.
The sight of them had sent a thrill through him,
which had banished all sense of the stinging cold.
He had eagerly looked forward to a brief visit to
the old country, and Sylvia had, no doubt, bidden
him come. It was delightful to picture her welcome,
and the evenings they would spend in Muriel Lansing’s
pretty drawing-room while he told her what he had
done and unfolded his plans for the future.
He could brook no avoidable delay in reading her message,
and, nerving himself for a struggle, he set out again.

The shack vanished the moment he left it. The
snow was thicker; and, floundering heavily through
the storm, George had almost given up the attempt
to find the ravine, when he fell violently into a clearer
part of it. Then he gathered courage, for the
bluff was large and would be difficult to miss; but
it did not appear when he expected it. He was
breathless, nearly blinded, and on the verge of exhaustion,
when he crashed into a dwarf birch and, looking up
half dazed, saw an indistinct mass of larger trees.

Page 111

He had now a guide, but it was hard to follow, with
his strength fast falling and the savage wind buffeting
him. He had stopped a moment, gasping, when something
emerged from the driving snow. It was moving;
it looked like a team with a sledge or wagon, and
he thought that his companions had come in search of
him. He cried out, but there was no answer, and
though he tried to run, the beasts vanished as strangely
as they had appeared.

They had, however, left their tracks, coming up from
the south, where the settlement lay, and this convinced
him that they had not been driven by Edgar or Grierson.
He made an attempt to overtake them and, falling,
went on again, wondering a little who the strangers
could be; though this was not a matter of much consequence.
If they had blankets or driving-robes, they might
pass the night without freezing in the bluff, where
there was fuel; but George was most clearly conscious
of the urgent need for his reaching the homestead
before his strength gave out.

At last he struck the beaten trail which had fortunately
not yet been drifted up, and after keeping to it for
a while he saw a faint twinkle of light in front of
him. A voice answered his shout and when he
stopped, keeping on his feet with difficulty and utterly
worn out, a team came up, blurred and indistinct,
out of the driving snow. After that somebody
seized him and pushed him toward an empty sledge.

“Get down out of the wind; here’s the
fur robe!” cried a voice he recognized.
“We came back as soon as we had thrown off the
load.”

George remembered very little about the remainder
of the journey, but at last the sledge stopped where
a warm glow of light shone out into the snow.
Getting up with some trouble he reached the homestead
door and walked heavily into the room where he sank,
gasping, into a chair. He felt faint and dizzy,
he could scarcely breathe; but those sensations grew
less troublesome as he recovered from the violent
change of temperature. Throwing off his furs,
he noticed that Flett sat smoking near the stove.

“Here’s some coffee,” said the constable.
“It’s pretty lucky Grierson found you.
I can’t remember a worse night.”

George drank the coffee. He still felt heavy
and partly dazed; his mind was lethargic, and his
hands and feet tingled painfully with the returning
warmth. He knew that there was something he ought
to tell Flett, but it was a few minutes before he
could think clearly.

“I met a team near the bluff and lost it again
almost immediately,” he mumbled finally.

Flett’s face became intent.

“Did the men who were with it see you?
Which way were they going?”

“No,” said George sleepily. “Anyway,
though I called I didn’t get an answer.
I think they were going west.”

“I don’t see why they shouldn’t,”
George remarked with languid indifference.

Page 112

“Hasn’t it struck you why those fellows
should be heading into waste prairie on a night like
this? Guess what they’ve got in the wagon’s
a good enough reason. If the snow’s not
too bad, they’ll pull out for the Indian reservation
soon as it’s light to-morrow.”

“You think they have liquor with them?”
asked George.

Flett nodded and walked toward the door, and George
felt the sudden fall of temperature and heard the
scream of the wind. In a minute or two, however,
the constable reappeared with Edgar.

“I’d get them sure; they’re in the
shack right now,” Flett declared.

“You would never find it,” Edgar remonstrated.
“We had hard enough work to strike the homestead,
and we were on a beaten trail, which will have drifted
up since then. You’ll have to drop the
idea—­it’s quite impossible.”

“It’s blamed hard luck,” grumbled
Flett. “I may trail the fellows, but I
certainly won’t get them with the liquor right
in the wagon, as it will be now, and without something
of that kind it’s mighty hard to secure a conviction.
I’ve no use for the average jury; what we want
is power to drop on to a man without any fuss or fooling
and fix him so he won’t make more trouble.”

“It’s fortunate you’ll never get
it,” Edgar remarked. “I’ve
a notion it would be a dangerous thing to trust even
a Northwest policeman with. You’re not
all quite perfect yet.”

Then George, recovering from his lethargy, remembered
the letters and eagerly opened the one from Sylvia.
It consisted of a few sentences in which she carelessly
told him that if he came over he would not see her,
as she was going to Egypt with Herbert and Muriel.
The hint of regret that her journey could not be
put off looked merely conventional, but she said he
might make his visit in the early summer, as she would
have returned by then.

George’s face hardened as he read it, for the
disappointment was severe. He thought that Sylvia
might have remembered that he could not leave the
farm after spring had begun. The man felt wounded
and, for once, inclined to bitterness. His optimistic
faith, which idealized its object, was bound to bring
him suffering when dispelled by disillusion; offering
sincere homage to all that seemed most worthy, he
had not learned tolerance. Though his appreciation
was quick and generous, he must believe in what he
admired, and it was, perhaps, a misfortune that he
was unable to recognize shortcomings with cynical
good-humor. He could distinguish white from black—­the
one stood for spotless purity, the other was very
dark indeed—­but his somewhat restricted
vision took no account of the more common intermediate
shades.

Page 113

For all that, he was incapable of seriously blaming
Sylvia. Her letter had hurt him, but he began
to make excuses for her, and several that seemed satisfactory
presented themselves; then, feeling a little comforted,
he opened the letter from Herbert with some anxiety.
When he read it, he let it drop upon the table and
set his lips tight. His cousin informed him
that it would be most injudicious to raise any money
just then by selling shares, as he had been requested
to do. Those he had bought on George’s
account had depreciated in an unexpected manner and
the markets were stagnant. George, he said, must
carry on his farming operations as economically as
possible, until the turn came.

“Bad news?” said Edgar sympathetically.

“Yes. I’ll have to cut out several
plans I’d made for spring; in fact, I don’t
quite see how I’m to go on working on a profitable
scale. We’ll have to do without the extra
bunch of stock I was calculating on; and I’m
not sure I can experiment with that quick-ripening
wheat. There are a number of other things we’ll
have to dispense with.”

“We’ll pull through by some means,”
Edgar rejoined encouragingly, and George got up.

“I feel rather worn out,” he said.
“I think I’ll go to sleep.”

He walked wearily from the room, crumpling up the
letters he had risked his life to secure.

CHAPTER XXI

GRANT COMES TO THE RESCUE

The storm had raged for twenty-four hours, but it
had now passed, and it was a calm night when a little
party sat in George’s living-room. Outside,
the white prairie lay still and silent under the Arctic
frost, but there was no breath of wind stirring and
the room was comfortably warm. A big stove glowed
in the middle of it, and the atmosphere was permeated
with the smell of hot iron, stale tobacco, and the
exudations from resinous boards.

Grant and his daughter had called when driving back
from a distant farm, and Trooper Flett had returned
to the homestead after a futile search for the liquor
smugglers. He was not characterized by mental
brilliancy, but his persevering patience atoned for
that, and his superior officers considered him a sound
and useful man. Sitting lazily in an easy chair
after a long day’s ride in the nipping frost,
he discoursed upon the situation.

“Things aren’t looking good,” he
said. “We’ve had two cases of cattle-killing
in the last month, besides some horses missing, and
a railroad contractor knocked senseless with an empty
bottle; and nobody’s locked up yet.”

“I don’t think you have any reason to
be proud of it,” Edgar broke in.

Flett spread out his hands in expostulation.

“It’s not our fault. I could put
my hands on half a dozen men who’re at the bottom
of the trouble; but what would be the use of that,
when the blamed jury would certainly let them off?
In a case of this kind, our system of justice is
mighty apt to break down. It’s a pet idea
of mine.”

Page 114

“How would you propose to alter it?” Edgar
asked, to lead him on.

“If we must have a jury, I’d like to pick
them, and they’d be men who’d lost some
stock. You could depend on them.”

“There’s something to be said for that,”
Grant admitted with a dry smile.

“This is how we’re fixed,” Flett
went on. “We’re up against a small,
but mighty smart, hard crowd; we know them all right,
but we can’t get after them. You must
make good all you say in court, and we can’t
get folks to help us. They’d rather mind
the store, have a game of pool, or chop their cordwood.”

“I can think of a few exceptions,” Edgar
said. “Mrs. Nelson, for example.
One could hardly consider her apathetic.”

“That woman’s dangerous! When we
were working up things against Beamish, she must make
him look like a persecuted victim. She goes too
far; the others won’t go far enough. Guess
they’re afraid of getting hurt.”

“You couldn’t say that of Mr. Hardie,”
Flora objected.

“No. But some of his people would like
to fire him, and he’s going to have trouble
about his pay. Anyhow, this state of things is
pretty hard on us. There’s no use in bringing
a man up when you’ve only got unwilling witnesses.”

“What you want is a dramatic conviction,”
said Edgar sympathetically.

“Sure. It’s what we’re working
for, and we’d get it if everybody backed us
up as your partner and Mr. Grant are doing.”
He turned to George. “My coming back
here is a little rough on you.”

George smiled.

“I dare say it will be understood by the opposition,
but I don’t mind. It looks as if I were
a marked man already.”

A few minutes later Flett went out to attend to his
horse; George took Grant into a smaller room which
he used for an office; and Edgar and Flora were left
alone. The girl sat beside the stove, with a
thoughtful air, and Edgar waited for her to speak.
Flora inspired him with an admiration which was largely
tinged with respect, though, being critical, he sometimes
speculated about the cause for this. She was
pretty, but her style of beauty was rather severe.
She had fine eyes and clearly-cut features, but her
face was a little too reposeful and her expression
usually somewhat grave; he preferred animation and
a dash of coquetry. Her conversation was to
the point—­she had a way of getting at the
truth of a matter—­but there was nevertheless
a certain reserve in it and he thought it might have
been more sparkling. He had discovered some
time ago that adroit flattery and hints that his devotion
was hers to command only afforded her calm amusement.

“Mr. Lansing looks a little worried,”
she said at length.

“It strikes me as only natural,” Edgar
replied, “He has had a steer killed since the
rustlers shot the bull; we have foiled one or two more
attempts only by keeping a good lookout, and he knows
that he lies open to any new attack that may be made
on him. His position isn’t what you could
call comfortable.”

Page 115

“I hardly think that would disturb your comrade
very much.”

Edgar saw that she would not be put off with an inadequate
explanation, and he was a little surprised that she
did not seem to mind displaying her interest in George.

“Then,” he said, “for another thing,
he’s disappointed about having to give up an
English visit he had looked forward to.”

He saw a gleam that suggested comprehension in her
eyes.

“You mean that he is badly disappointed?”

“Yes,” said Edgar; “I really think
he is.”

He left her to make what she liked of this, and he
imagined that there was something to be inferred from
it. He thought it might be wise to give her
a hint that George’s affections were already
engaged.

“Besides,” he resumed, “it’s
no secret that the loss of his harvest hit him pretty
hard. We’ll have to curtail our spring
operation in several ways and study economy.”

Flora glanced toward the door of the room her father
had entered with George. Edgar thought she had
done so unconsciously; but it was somewhat suggestive,
though he could not see what it implied.

“Well,” she said, “I’m inclined
to believe that he’ll get over his difficulties.”

“So am I,” Edgar agreed. “George
isn’t easy to defeat.”

In the meanwhile Grant sat in the next room, smoking
thoughtfully and asking George rather direct questions
about his farming.

“I’ve made some inquiries about that new
wheat your English botanist friend reported on,”
he said at length. “Our experimental farm
people strongly recommend it, and there’s a
man I wrote to who can’t say enough in its favor.
You’ll sow it this spring?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to stick to
the common kinds,” George said gloomily.
“I’ve a pretty big acreage to crop and
that special seed is remarkably dear.”

“That’s so,” Grant agreed.
“As a matter of fact, they haven’t quite
made their arrangements for putting it on the market
yet, and the surest way to get some is to bid for
a round lot. After what I’d heard, I wired
a Winnipeg agent and he has promised to send me on
what looks like more than I can use. Now I’ll
be glad to let you have as much as you want for your
lightest land.”

George felt grateful. He did not think that
this methodical man had made any careless mistake
over his order; but he hesitated.

“Thanks,” he said. “Still,
it doesn’t get over the main difficulty.”

“I guess it does. You would have had to
pay money down for the seed, and I’ll be glad
to let the thing stand over until you have thrashed
out. The price doesn’t count; you can give
me back as many bushels as you get.”

“Then,” said George with a slight flush,
“you’re more generous than wise.
They haven’t produced a wheat yet that will
stand drought and hail. Suppose I have another
year like last? I’m sorry I can’t
let you run this risk.”

Page 116

“We’ll quit pretending. I owe a
little to the country that has made me what I am,
and these new hardy wheats are going to play a big
part in its development. I want to see them
tried on the poorest land.”

“That’s a good reason. I believe
it goes some way, but I hardly think it accounts for
everything.”

His companion looked at him with fixed directness.

“Then, if you must be satisfied, you’re
my neighbor; you have had blamed hard luck and I like
the way you’re standing up to it. If anybody’s
on meaner soil than yours I want to see it. Anyway,
here’s the seed; take what you need, pay me
back when you’re able. Guess you’re
not too proud to take a favor that’s gladly offered.”

“I’d be a most ungrateful brute if I refused,”
George replied with feeling.

“That’s done with,” Grant said firmly;
and soon afterward he and George returned to the other
room.

After a while he went out with Edgar to look at a
horse, and George turned to Flora.

“Your father has taken a big weight off my mind,
and I’m afraid I hardly thanked him,”
he said.

“Then it was a relief?” she asked, and
it failed to strike him as curious that she seemed
to know what he was alluding to.

“Yes,” he declared; “I feel ever
so much more confident now that I can get that seed.
The fact that it was offered somehow encouraged me.”

“Perhaps not,” admitted George.
“I’ve been very wrong in this instance;
but I suppose one naturally prefers to hide one’s
difficulties.”

“I don’t think the feeling’s universal.
But you would, no doubt, be more inclined to help
other people out of their troubles.”

George looked a little embarrassed, and she changed
the subject with a laugh.

“Come and see us when you can find the time.
On the last occasion, you sent your partner over.”

“I’d made an appointment with an implement
man when I got your father’s note. Anyway,
I should have fancied that Edgar would have made a
pretty good substitute.”

“Mr. West is a favorite of ours; he’s
amusing and excellent company, as far as he goes.”

Her tone conveyed a hint that Edgar had his limitations
and he was not an altogether satisfactory exchange
for his partner; but George laughed.

“He now and then goes farther than I would care
to venture.”

Flora looked at him with faint amusement.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s
one of the differences between you; you’re not
assertive. It has struck me that you don’t
always realize your value.”

“Would you like one to insist on it?”

“Oh,” she said, “there’s a
happy medium; but I’m getting rather personal,
and I hear the others coming.”

She drove away a little later, and when Flett had
gone to bed George and Edgar sat talking a while beside
the stove.

Page 117

“Grant’s a staunch friend, and I’m
more impressed with Flora every time I see her,”
said the lad. “She’s pleasant to
talk to, she can harness and handle a team with any
one; but for all that, you recognize a trace of what
I can only call the grand manner in her. Though
I understand that she has been to the old country,
it’s rather hard to see how she got it.”

George signified agreement. Miss Grant was undoubtedly
characterized by a certain grace and now and then
by an elusive hint of stateliness. It was a thing
quite apart from self-assertion; a gracious quality,
which he had hitherto noticed only in the bearing of
a few elderly English ladies of station.

“I suppose you thanked her for that seed?”
Edgar resumed.

“I said I was grateful to her father.”

“I’ve no doubt you took the trouble to
mark the distinction. It might have been more
considerate if you had divided your gratitude.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s hardly likely that the idea of helping
you in that particular way originated with Alan Grant,
though I shouldn’t be surprised if he had been
allowed to think it did.”

George looked surprised and Edgar laughed.

“You needn’t mind. It’s most
improbable that Miss Grant either wished or expected
you to understand. She’s a very intelligent
young lady.”

“It strikes me that you talk too much,”
George said severely.

He went out, feeling a little disturbed by what Edgar
had told him, but unable to analyze his sensations.
Putting on his furs, he proceeded to look around
the stable, as he had fallen into a habit of doing
before he went to rest. There was a clear moon
in the sky, and although the black shadow of the buildings
stretched out across the snow, George on approaching
one noticed a few footprints that led toward it.
There were numerous other tracks about, but he thought
that those he was looking at had been made since he
had last entered the house. This, however, did
not surprise him, for Flett had recently visited the
stable.

On entering the building, George stopped to feel for
a lantern which was kept on a shelf near the door.
The place was very dark and pleasantly warm by contrast
with the bitter frost outside, and he could smell
the peppermint in the prairie hay. Familiar sounds
reached him—­the soft rattle of a shaking
rope, the crackle of crushed straw—­but
they were rather more numerous than usual, and while
he listened one or two of the horses began to move
restlessly.

The lantern was not to be found; George wondered whether
Flett had carelessly forgotten to replace it.
He felt his way from stall to stall, letting his
hand fall on the hind quarters of the horses as he
passed. They were all in their places, including
Flett’s gray, which lashed out at him when he
touched it; there was nothing to excite suspicion,
but when he reached the end of the row he determined
to strike a match and look for the lantern.

Page 118

He was some time feeling for the match-box under his
furs, and while he did so he heard a soft rustling
in the stall nearest the door. This was curious,
for the stall, being a cold one, was unoccupied, and
there was something significantly stealthy in the
sound; but it ceased, and while he listened with strained
attention a horse moved and snorted. Then, while
he fumbled impatiently at a button of his skin coat
which would not come loose, an icy draught stole into
the building.

It was obvious that the door was open; he had left
it shut.

Breaking off his search for the matches, he made toward
the entrance and sprang out. There was nobody
upon the moonlit snow, and the shadows were hardly
deep enough to conceal a lurking man. He ran
toward the end of the rather long building; but, as
it happened, he had to make a round to avoid a stack
of wood and a wagon on the way. When he turned
the corner, the other side of the stable was clear
in the moonlight and, so far as he could see, the
snow about it was untrodden. It looked as if
he had made for the wrong end of the building, and
he retraced his steps toward a barn that stood near
its opposite extremity. Running around it, he
saw nobody, nor any footprints that seemed to have
been recently made; and while he stood wondering what
he should do next, Grierson appeared between him and
the house.

“Were you in the stables a minute or two ago?”
George called to him,

“No,” said the other approaching.
“I’d just come out for some wood when
I saw you run round the barn.”

George gave him a brief explanation, and the man looked
about.

“Perhaps we’d better search the buildings;
if there was any stranger prowling round, he might
have dodged you in the shadow. It’s hardly
likely he’d make for the prairie; the first clump
of brush big enough to hide a man is a quarter of
a mile off.”

They set about the search, but found nobody, and George
stopped outside the last building with a puzzled frown
on his face.

“It’s very strange,” he said.
“I left the door shut; I couldn’t be
mistaken.”

Turning sharply, George saw a dim mounted figure cross
the crest of a low rise some distance away and vanish
beyond it.

“The fellow must have run straight for the poplar
scrub, keeping the house between you and him,”
Grierson explained. “He’d have left
his horse among the brush.”

“I suppose that was it,” George said angrily.
“As there’s no chance of overtaking him,
we’ll have a look at the horses, with a light,
and then let Flett know.”

There was nothing wrong in the stable, where they
found the lantern George had looked for flung down
in the empty stall, and in a very short space of time
after they had called him Flett appeared. He
walked round the buildings and examined some of the
footprints with a light, and then he turned to George.

Page 119

“Looks like an Indian by his stride,”
he said. “Guess I’ll have to saddle
up and start.”

“You could hardly come up with the fellow; he’ll
have struck into one of the beaten trails, so as to
leave no tracks,” Edgar pointed out.

“That’s so,” said Flett. “I
don’t want to come up with him. It wouldn’t
be any use when your partner and Grierson couldn’t
swear to the man.”

“What could have been his object?” George
asked. “He seems to have done no harm.”

“He wanted to see if my gray was still in the
stable,” Flett said dryly. “His
friends have some business they’d sooner I didn’t
butt into fixed up somewhere else.”

“But you have no idea where?”

“I haven’t; that’s the trouble.
There are three or four different trails I’d
like to watch, and I quite expect to strike the wrong
one. Then, if the man knows you saw him, he might
take his friends warning to change their plans.
All the same, I’ll get off.”

He rode away shortly afterward, and as the others
went back toward the house Edgar laughed.

“I don’t think being a police trooper
has many attractions in winter,” he remarked.
“Hiding in a bluff for several hours with the
temperature forty degrees below, on the lookout for
fellows who have probably gone another way, strikes
me as a very unpleasant occupation.”

CHAPTER XXII

THE SPREAD OF DISORDER

Flett spent a bitter night, keeping an unavailing
watch among the willows where a lonely trail dipped
into a ravine. Not a sound broke the stillness
of the white prairie, and realizing that the men he
wished to surprise had taken another path, he left
his hiding-place shortly before daylight. He
was almost too cold and stiff to mount; but as his
hands and feet tingled painfully, it was evident that
they had escaped frostbite, and that was something
to be thankful for.

Reaching an outlying farm, he breakfasted and rested
a while, after which he rode on to the Indian reservation,
where he found signs of recent trouble. A man
to whom he was at first refused access lay with a
badly battered face in a shack which stood beside a
few acres of roughly broken land; another man suffering
from what looked like an ax wound sat huddled in dirty
blankets in a teepee. It was obvious that a
fight, which Flett suspected was the result of a drunken
orgy, had been in progress not long before; but he
could find no liquor nor any man actually under its
influence, though the appearance of several suggested
that they were recovering from a debauch. He
discovered, however, in a poplar thicket the hide
of a steer, from which a recent breeze had swept its
covering of snow. This was a serious matter,
and though the brand had been removed, Flett identified
the skin as having belonged to an animal reported
to him as missing.

Page 120

He had now, when dusk was approaching, two charges
of assault and one of cattle-killing to make, and
it would not be prudent to remain upon the reservation
during the night with anybody he arrested. The
Indians were in a sullen, threatening mood; it was
difficult to extract any information, and Flett was
alone. He was, however, not to be daunted by
angry looks or ominous mutterings, and by persistently
questioning the injured men he learned enough to warrant
his making two arrests; though he decided that the
matter of the hide must be dropped for the present.

It was in a state of nervous tension that he mounted
and drove his prisoners on a few paces in front of
him. If he could get them into the open, he
thought he would be safe, but the reservation was,
for the most part, a tract of brush and bluff, pierced
by ravines, among which he half expected an attempt
would be made to facilitate their escape. For
all that, he was, so far as appearances went, very
calm and grim when he set out, and his prisoners,
being ahead, did not notice that he searched each
taller patch of brush they entered with apprehensive
glances. Nor did they see his hand drop to his
pistol-butt when something moved in the bushes as
they went down the side of a dark declivity.

There was, however, no interference, and he felt more
confident when he rode out into the moonlight which
flooded the glittering prairie. Here he could
deal with any unfavorable developments; but it was
several leagues to the nearest shelter, and the Indians
did not seem inclined to travel fast. The half-frozen
constable would gladly have walked, only that he felt
more master of the situation upon his horse.
Mile after mile, they crossed the vast white waste,
without a word being spoken, except when the shivering
man sternly bade his prisoners, “Get on!”

Hand-cuffed as they were, he dare not relax his vigilance
nor let them fall back too near him; and he had spent
the previous night in the bitter frost. At times
he felt painfully drowsy, but he had learned to overcome
most bodily weaknesses, and his eyes only left the
dark, plodding figures in front of him when he swept
a searching glance across the plain. Nothing
moved on it, and only the soft crunch of snow broke
the dreary silence. At last, a cluster of low
buildings rose out of the waste, and soon afterward
Flett got down with difficulty and demanded shelter.
The rudely awakened farmer gave him the use of his
kitchen, in which a stove was burning; and while the
Indians went to sleep on the floor, Flett, choosing
an uncomfortable upright chair, lighted his pipe and
sat down to keep another vigil. When dawn broke,
his eyes were still open, though his face was a little
haggard and very weary.

He obtained a conviction for assault; but, as the
charges of cattle-killing and being in possession
of liquor had to be dropped, this was small consolation.
It left the men he considered responsible absolutely
untouched.

Page 121

Afterward, he played a part in other somewhat similar
affairs, for offenses were rapidly becoming more numerous
among both Indians and mean whites; but in spite of
his efforts the gang he suspected managed to evade
the grip of the law. Flett, however, was far
from despairing; he waited his time and watched.

While he did so, spring came, unusually early.
A warm west wind swept the snow away and for a week
or two the softened prairie was almost impassable
to vehicles. Then the wind veered to the northwest
with bright sunshine, the soil began to dry, and George
set out on a visit to Brandon where he had some business
to transact.

Reaching Sage Butte in the afternoon, he found it
suffering from the effects of the thaw. A swollen
creek had converted the ground on one side of the
track into a shallow lake; the front street resembled
a muskeg, furrowed deep by sinking wheels. The
vehicles outside the hotels were covered with sticky
mire; the high, plank sidewalks were slippery with
it, and foot passengers when forced to leave them sank
far up their long boots; one or two of the stores were
almost cut off by the pools. It rained between
gleams of sunshine, and masses of dark cloud rolled
by above the dripping town and wet prairie, which had
turned a dingy gray.

As he was proceeding along one sidewalk, George met
Hardie, and it struck him that the man was looking
dejected and worn.

“Will you come back with me and wait for supper?”
he asked. “I’d be glad of a talk.”

“I think not,” said George. “You’re
on the far side of the town and there are two streets
to cross; you see, I’m going to Brandon, and
I’ll take enough gumbo into the cars with me,
as it is. Then my train leaves in half an hour.
I suppose I mustn’t ask you to come into the
Queen’s?”

“No,” said the clergyman. “Our
old guard won’t tolerate the smallest compromise
with the enemy, and there’s a good deal to be
said for their point of view. After all, half-measures
have seldom much result; a man must be one thing or
another. But we might try the new waiting-room
at the station.”

The little room proved to be dry and comparatively
clean, besides being furnished with nicely made and
comfortable seats. Leaning back in one near
the stove, George turned to his companion.

“How are things going round here?” he
asked.

“Very much as I expected; we tried and failed
to apply a check in time, and of late we have had
a regular outbreak of lawlessness. At first
sight, it’s curious, considering that three-fourths
of the inhabitants of the district are steady, industrious
folk, and a proportion of the rest are capable of
being useful citizens.”

“Then how do you account for the disorder?”

Hardie looked thoughtful.

Page 122

“I suppose we all have a tendency to follow
a lead, which is often useful in an organized state
of society; though it depends on the lead. By
way of counter-balance, we have a certain impatience
of restraint. Granting this, you can see that
when the general tone of a place is one of sobriety
and order, people who have not much love for either
find it more or less easy to conform. But, if
you set them a different example, one that slackens
restrictions instead of imposing them, they’ll
follow it, and it somehow seems to be the rule that
the turbulent element exerts the stronger influence.
Anyway, it becomes the more prominent. You
hear of the fellow who steals a horse in a daring
manner; the man who quietly goes on with his plowing
excites no notice.”

“One must agree with that,” George replied.
“Popular feeling’s fickle; a constant
standard is needed to adjust it by.”

Hardie smiled.

“It was given us long ago. But I can’t
believe that there’s much general sympathy with
these troublesome fellows. What I complain of
is popular apathy; nobody feels it his business to
interfere; though this state of things can’t
continue. The patience of respectable people
will wear out; and then one can look for drastic developments.”

“In the meanwhile, the other crowd are having
their fling.”

Hardie nodded.

“That’s unfortunately true, though the
lawbreakers have now and then come off second-best.
A few days ago, Wilkie, the station-agent, was sitting
in his office when a man who had some grievance against
the railroad walked up to the window. Wilkie
told him he must send his claim to Winnipeg, and the
fellow retorted that he would have satisfaction right
away out of the agent’s hide. With that,
he climbed in through the window; and I must confess
to a feeling of satisfaction when I heard that he
left the station in need of medical assistance.
A week earlier, Taunton, of the store, was walking
home along the track in the dark after collecting
some of his accounts, when a man jumped out from behind
a stock of ties with a pistol and demanded his wallet.
Taunton, taken by surprise, produced a wad of bills,
but the thief was a little too eager or careless in
seizing them, for Taunton grabbed the pistol and got
his money back. After that, he marched the man
three miles along the track and into his store.
I don’t know what happened then, but I heard
that there were traces of a pretty lively scuffle.”

George laughed, but his companion continued more gravely:

“Then we have had a number of small disturbances
when the men from the new link line came into town—­they’ve
graded the track to within a few miles now—­and
I hold Beamish responsible; they haven’t encouraged
these fellows at the Queen’s. In fact,
I mean to walk over and try to get a few words with
them as soon as I leave you.”

“One would hardly think Saturday evening a very
good time,” George commented.

Page 123

His train came in shortly afterward, and when it had
gone Hardie went home for a rubber coat, and then
took the trail leading out of the settlement.
He was forced to trudge through the tangled grass
beside it because the soft gumbo soil stuck to his
boots in great black lumps, and the patches of dwarf
brush through which he must smash made progress laborious.
After a while, however, he saw a long trail of black
smoke ahead, and sounds of distant activity grew steadily
louder.

There was an angry red glare on the western horizon,
though the light was beginning to fade, when he reached
the end of the new line and found a crowd of men distributing
piles of gravel and spiking down the rails which ran
back, gleaming in the sunset, lurid, straight and
level, across the expanse of grass, until they were
lost in the shadowy mass of a bluff. Near the
men stood a few jaded teams and miry wagons; farther
on a row of freight-cars occupied a side-track, a little
smoke rising from the stacks on the roofs of one or
two. Their doors were open, and on passing,
Hardie noticed the dirty blue blankets and the litter
of wet clothing in the rude bunks. As he approached
the last car, which served as store and office, a
man sprang down upon the line. He wore wet long
boots and an old rubber coat stained with soil, but
there was a stamp of authority upon his bronzed face.

“How are you getting on, Mr. Farren?”
Hardie inquired.

“Slowly,” said the other; “can’t
catch up on schedule contract time. We’ve
had rain and heavy soil ever since we began.
The boys have been giving me some trouble, too.”

“You won’t mind my having a few words
with them?”

“Why, no,” said Farren. “Guess
they need it; but I’m most afraid you’ll
be wasting time. The Scandinavians, who’re
quiet enough and might agree with you, can’t
understand, and it’s quite likely that the crowd
you want to get at won’t listen. Anyway,
you can try it after they’ve dubbed the load
off the gravel train; she’s coming now.”

He pointed toward a smear of smoke that trailed away
across the prairie. It grew rapidly blacker
and nearer, and presently a grimy locomotive with
a long string of clattering cars behind it came down
the uneven track. It had hardly stopped when
the sides of the low cars dropped, and a plow moved
forward from one to another, hurling off masses of
gravel that fell with a roar. Then the train,
backing out, came to a standstill again, and a swarm
of men became busy about the line. Dusk was
falling, but the blaze of the great electric light
on the locomotive streamed along the track.
While Hardie stood watching, half a dozen men dropped
their tools and walked up to his companion.

“We’re through with our lot,” announced
one. “We’re going to the Butte and
we’ll trouble you for a sub of two dollars a
man.”

“You won’t get it,” said Farren
shortly. “I want the ties laid on the
next load.”

Page 124

“Then you can send somebody else to fix them.
We’re doing more than we booked for.”

“You’re getting paid for it.”

“Shucks!” said the other contemptuously.
“What we want is an evening at the Butte; and
we’re going to have it! Hand over the two
dollars.”

“No, sir,” said Farren. “I’ve
given in once or twice and I’ve got no work
out of you for most two days afterward. You can
quit tie-laying, if you insist; but you’ll get
no money until pay-day.”

One of the men pulled out his watch.

“Boys,” he said, “if we stop here
talking, there won’t be much time left for a
jag when we make the Butte. Are you going to
let him bluff you?”

The growl from the others was ominous. They
had been working long hours at high pressure in the
rain, and had suffered in temper. One of them
strode forward and grasped Farren’s shoulder.

“Now,” he demanded, “hand out!
It’s our money.”

There was only one course open to Farren. His
position was not an easy one, and if he yielded, his
authority would be gone.

His left arm shot out and the man went down with a
crash. Then the others closed with him and a
savage struggle began.

Hardie laid hold of a man who had picked up an iron
bar, and managed to wrest it from him, but another
struck him violently on the head, and he had a very
indistinct idea of what went on during the next minute
or two. There was a struggling knot of men pressed
against the side of the car, but it broke up when
more figures came running up and one man cried out
sharply as he was struck by a heavy lump of gravel.
Then Hardie found himself kneeling beside Farren,
who lay senseless near the wheels with the blood running
down his set white face. Behind him stood the
panting locomotive engineer, trying to hold back the
growing crowd.

“Looks pretty bad,” he said. “What’s
to be done with him?”

“We had better get him into his bunk,”
directed Hardie. “Then I’ll make
for the Butte as fast as I can and bring the doctor
out.”

“It would take two hours,” objected the
engineer, as he gently removed Farren’s hat.
“Strikes me as a mighty ugly gash; the thing
must be looked to right away. If I let her go,
throttle wide, we ought to make Carson in half an
hour, and they’ve a smart doctor there.”
He said something to his fireman and added:
“Get hold; we’ll take him along.”

It looked as if the outbreak had not met with general
approval, for a number of the bystanders offered their
help and the injured man was carefully carried to
the locomotive.

“I’ll run the cars along as far as the
gravel pit; then I can book the journey,” the
engineer said to Hardie. “But as I can’t
get off at the other end, you’ll have to come
along.”

Hardie wondered how he would get back, but that was
not a matter of great consequence, though he had to
preach at Sage Butte in the morning, and he climbed
up when Farren had been lifted into the cab.
Then he sat down on the floor plates and rested the
unconscious man’s head and shoulders against
his knees as the engine began to rock furiously.
Nothing was said for a while; the uproar made by the
banging cars would have rendered speech inaudible,
but when they had been left behind, the engineer looked
at Hardie.

Page 125

“In a general way, it’s not the thing
to interfere in a row with a boss,” he said.
“Still, four to two, with two more watching
out for a chance to butt in, is pretty steep odds,
and Farren’s a straight man. I felt quite
good when I hit one of those fellows with a big lump
of gravel.”

Hardie could understand his sensations and did not
rebuke him. So far as his experience went, the
western locomotive crews were of an excellent type,
and he was willing to admit that there were occasions
when the indignation of an honest man might be expressed
in vigorous action.

“It was really four to one, which makes the
odds heavier,” he said.

“I guess not,” rejoined the engineer with
a smile. “You were laying into one of
them pretty lively as I ran up.”

Hardie felt a little disconcerted. Having been
partly dazed by the blow he had received, he had no
clear recollection of the part he had taken in the
scrimmage, though he had been conscious of burning
anger when Farren was struck down. It was, however,
difficult to believe that the engineer had been mistaken,
because the locomotive lamp had lighted the track
brilliantly.

“Anyway, one of them put his mark on you,”
resumed his companion. “Did you notice
it, Pete?”

“Sure,” said the grinning fireman; “big
lump on his right cheek.” He fumbled in
a box and handed a tool to Hardie. “Better
hold that spanner to it, if you’re going to
preach to-morrow. But how’s Farren?”

“No sign of consciousness. The sooner
we can get him into a doctor’s hands, the better.”

“Stir her up,” ordered the engineer, and
nodded when his comrade swung back the fire-door and
hurled in coal. Then he turned to Hardie.
“We’re losing no time. She’s
running to beat the Imperial Limited clip, and the
track’s not worked down yet into its bed.”

Hardie, looking about for a few moments, thought the
speed could not safely be increased. There was
a scream of wind about the cab, though when he had
stood upon the track the air had been almost still;
a bluff, which he knew was a large one, leaped up,
hung over the line, and rushed away behind; the great
engine was rocking and jolting so that he could hardly
maintain his position, and the fireman shuffled about
with the erratic motion. Then Hardie busied himself
trying to protect Farren from the shaking, until the
scream of the whistle broke through the confused sounds
and the pace diminished. The bell began to toll,
and, rising to his feet, Hardie saw a cluster of lights
flitting back toward him. Shortly afterward
they stopped beside a half-built row of elevators.

“Guess you’ll have to be back to-morrow,”
the engineer said.

Hardie nodded.

“I’ve been rather worried about it.
It would take me all night to walk.”

“That’s so,” agreed the other.
“All you have to do is to see Farren safe in
the doctor’s hands and leave the rest to me.
I’ve got to have some water, for one thing.”
He turned to his fireman. “We’ll
put in that new journal babbit; she’s not running
sweet.”

Page 126

The clergyman was inclined to believe that the repair
was not strictly needed, though it would account for
a delay; but one or two of the station hands had reached
the engine and, following instructions, they lifted
Farren down, and wheeled him on a baggage truck to
the doctor’s house. The doctor seemed
to have no doubt of the man’s recovery but said
that he must not be moved again for a day or two; and
Hardie went back to the station, reassured and less
troubled than he had been for some time. The
attitude of the engineer, fireman, and construction
gang, was encouraging. It confirmed his belief
that the lawless element was tolerated rather than
regarded with sympathy, and the patience of the remainder
of the community would become exhausted before long.
Though he admitted the influence of a bad example,
he had firm faith in the rank and file.

CHAPTER XXIII

A HARMLESS CONSPIRACY

On the evening that George left for Brandon, Edgar
drove over to the Grant homestead.

“It’s Saturday night, my partner’s
gone, and I felt I deserved a little relaxation,”
he explained.

“It’s something to be able to feel that;
the men who opened up this wheat-belt never got nor
wanted anything of the kind,” Grant rejoined.
“But as supper’s nearly ready, you have
come at the right time.”

Edgar turned to Flora.

“Your father always makes me feel that I belong
to a decadent age. One can put up with it from
him, because he’s willing to live up to his
ideas, which is not a universal rule, so far as my
experience of moralizers goes. Anyhow, I’ll
confess that I’m glad to arrive in time for
a meal. The cooking at our place might be improved;
George, I regret to say, never seems to notice what
he eats.”

“That’s a pretty good sign,” said
Grant.

“It strikes me as a failing for which I have
to bear part of the consequences.”

Flora laughed.

“If you felt that you had to make an excuse
for coming, couldn’t you have made a more flattering
one?”

“Ah!” said Edgar, “you have caught
me out. But I could give you a number of better
reasons. It isn’t my fault you resent compliments.”

Flora rose and they entered the room where the hired
men were gathering for the meal. When it was
over, they returned to the smaller room and found
seats near an open window, Grant smoking, Flora embroidering,
while Edgar mused as he watched her. Dressed
in some simple, light-colored material, which was
nevertheless tastefully cut, she made an attractive
picture in the plainly furnished room, the walls of
which made an appropriate frame of uncovered native
pine, for he always associated her and her father
with the land to which they belonged. There was
nothing voluptuous in any line of the girl’s
face or figure; the effect was chastely severe, and
he knew that it conveyed a reliable hint of her character.
This was not marked by coldness, but rather by an
absence of superficial warmth. The calmness of
her eyes spoke of depth and balance. She was
steadfast and consistent; a daughter of the stern,
snow-scourged North.

Page 127

Then he glanced at the prairie, which ran west, streaked
with ochre stubble in the foreground, then white and
silvery gray, with neutral smears of poplar bluffs,
to the blaze of crimson where it cut the sky.
It was vast and lonely; at first sight a hard, forbidding
land that broke down the slack of purpose and drove
out the sybarite. He had sometimes shrunk from
it, but it was slowly fastening its hold on him, and
he now understood how it molded the nature of its inhabitants.
For the most part, they were far from effusive; some
of their ways were primitive and perhaps slightly
barbarous, but there was vigor and staunchness in
them. They stuck to the friends they had tried
and were admirable in action; it was when, as they
said, they were up against it that one learned most
about the strong hearts of these men and women.

“Lansing will be away some days,” Grant
said presently. “What are you going to
do next week?”

“Put up the new fence, most likely. The
land’s a little soft for plowing yet.”

“That’s so. As you’ll have
no use for the teams, it would be a good time to haul
in some of the seed wheat. I’ve a carload
coming out.”

“A carload!” exclaimed Edgar in surprise,
remembering the large carrying capacity of the Canadian
freight-cars. “At the price they’ve
been asking, it must have cost you a pile.”

“It did,” said Grant. “I generally
try to get down to bed-rock figure, but I don’t
mind paying it. The fellow who worked up that
wheat deserves his money.”

“You mean the seed’s worth its price if
the crop escapes the frost?”

“That wasn’t quite all I meant.
I’m willing to pay the man for the work he has
put into it. Try to figure the cross fertilizations
he must have made, the varieties he’s tried
and cut out, and remember it takes time to get a permanent
strain, and wheat makes only one crop a year.
If the stuff’s as good as it seems, the fellow’s
done something he’ll never be paid for.
Anyway, he’s welcome to my share.”

“There’s no doubt about your admiration
for hard work,” declared Edgar. “As
it happens, you have found putting it into practise
profitable, which may have had some effect.”

Grant’s eyes twinkled.

“Now you have got hold of the wrong idea.
You have raised a different point.”

“Then, for instance, would you expect a hired
man who had no interest in the crop to work as hard
as you would?”

“Yes,” Grant answered rather grimly; “I’d
see he did. Though I don’t often pay more
than I can help, I wouldn’t blame him for screwing
up his wages to the last cent he could get; but if
it was only half the proper rate, he’d have
to do his share. A man’s responsible to
the country he’s living in, not to his employer;
the latter’s only an agent, and if he gets too
big a commission, it doesn’t affect the case.”

“It affects the workman seriously.”

“He and his master must settle that point between
them,” Grant paused and spread out his hands
forcibly. “You have heard what the country
west of old Fort Garby—­it’s Winnipeg
now—­was like thirty years ago. Do
you suppose all the men who made it what it is got
paid for what they did? Canada couldn’t
raise the money, and quite a few of them got frozen
to death.”

Page 128

It struck Edgar as a rather stern doctrine, but he
admitted the truth of it; what was more, he felt that
George and this farmer had many views in common.
Grant, however, changed the subject.

“You had better take your two heavy teams in
to the Butte on Monday; I’ve ordered my freight
there until the sandy trails get loose again.
Bring a couple of spare horses along. We’ll
load you up and you can come in again.”

“Two Clover-leaf wagons will haul a large lot
of seed in a double journey.”

“It’s quite likely you’ll have to
make a third. Don’t you think you ought
to get this hauling done before Lansing comes home?”

A light broke in on Edgar. Grant was, with some
reason, occasionally called hard; but he was always
just, and it was evident that he could be generous.
He meant to make his gift complete before George could
protest.

“Yes,” acquiesced Edgar; “it would
be better, because George might want the teams, and
for other reasons.”

The farmer nodded.

“That’s fixed. The agent has instructions
to deliver.”

Edgar left the homestead an hour later and spent the
Sunday resting, because he knew that he would need
all of his energy during the next few days.
At dawn on the following morning he and Grierson started
for Sage Butte, and on their arrival loaded the wagons
and put up their horses for the night. They
set out again before sunrise and were glad of the
spare team when they came to places where all the horses
could scarcely haul one wagon through the soft black
soil. There were other spots where the graded
road sloped steeply to the hollow out of which it
had been dug, and with the lower wheels sinking they
had to hold up the side of the vehicle. Great
clods clung to the wheels; the men, plodding at the
horses’ heads, could scarcely pull their feet
out of the mire, and they were thankful when they
left the fences behind and could seek a slightly sounder
surface on the grass.

Even here, progress was difficult. The stalks
were tough and tangled and mixed with stiff, dwarf
scrub, which grew in some spots almost to one’s
waist. There were little rises, and hollows into
which the wagons jolted violently, and here and there
they must skirt a bluff or strike back into the cut-up
trail which traversed it. Toward noon they reached
a larger wood, where the trees crowded thick upon the
track. When Edgar floundered into it, there appeared
to be no bottom. Getting back to the grass,
he surveyed the scene with strong disgust; he had
not quite got over his English fastidiousness.

Leafless branches met above the trail, and little
bays strewn with trampled brush which showed where
somebody had tried to force a drier route, indented
the ranks of slender trunks. Except for these,
the strip of sloppy black gumbo led straight through
the wood, interspersed with gleaming pools.
Having seen enough, Edgar beckoned Grierson and climbed
a low hillock. The bluff was narrow where the
road pierced it, but it was long and the ground was
rough and covered with a smaller growth for some distance
on its flanks.

Page 129

“There’s no way of getting round,”
he said. “I suppose six horses ought to
haul one wagon through that sloo.”

“It looks a bit doubtful,” Grierson objected.
“We mightn’t be able to pull her out
if she got in very deep. We could dump half the
load and come back for it.”

“And make four journeys? It’s not
to be thought of; two’s a good deal too many.”

They yoked the three teams to the first wagon, which
promptly sank a long way up its high wheels, and while
the men waded nearly knee-deep at their heads, the
straining horses made thirty or forty yards.
Then Edgar sank over the top of his long boots and
the hub of one wheel got ominously low.

“They’ve done more than one could have
expected; I hate to use the whip, but we must get
out of this before she goes in altogether,” he
said.

Grierson nodded. He was fond of his horses,
which were obviously distressed, and flecked with
spume and lather where the traces chafed their wet
flanks; but to be merciful would only increase their
task.

The whip-cracks rang out like pistol-shots; and, splashing,
snorting, struggling, amid showers of mire, they drew
the wagon out of its sticky bed. They made another
dozen yards; and then Grierson turned the horses into
one of the embayments where there was brush that would
support the wheels. Edgar sat down, breathless,
upon a fallen trunk.

“People at home have two quite unfounded ideas
about this country,” he said disgustedly.
“The first is that money is easily picked up
here—­which doesn’t seem to need any
remark; the second is that they have only to send
over the slackers and slouchers to reform them.
In my opinion, a few doses of this kind of thing
would be enough to fill them with a horror of work.”
He replaced the pipe he had taken out. “It’s
a pity, Grierson, but we can’t sit here and smoke.”

They went on and nearly capsized the wagon in a pool,
the bottom of which was too soft to give them foothold
while they held up the vehicle, but they got through
it and one or two others, and presently came out,
dripping from the waist down, on to the drier prairie.
Then Edgar turned and viewed their track.

“It won’t bear much looking at; we had
better unyoke,” he said. “If anybody
had told me in England that I’d ever flounder
through a place like that, I’d—­”

He paused, seeking for words to express himself fittingly.

“You’d have called him a liar,”
Grierson suggested.

“That hardly strikes me as strong enough,”
Edgar laughed.

They had spent two hours in the bluff when they brought
the last load through, and sitting down in a patch
of scrub they took out their lunch. After a
while Edgar flung off his badly splashed hat and jacket
and lay down in the sunshine.

“The thing’s done; the pity is it must
be done again to-morrow,” he remarked, “In
the meanwhile, we’ll forget it; I’ll draw
a veil over my feelings.”

Page 130

They had finished lunch and lighted their pipes when
a buggy appeared from behind a projecting dump of
trees and soon afterward Flora Grant pulled up her
horse near by. Edgar rose and stood beside the
vehicle bareheaded, looking slender and handsome in
his loose yellow shirt, duck overalls, and long boots,
though the marks of the journey were freely scattered
about him. Flora glanced at the jaded teams and
the miry wagons and smiled at the lad. She had
a good idea of the difficulties he had overcome.

“The trail must have been pretty bad,”
she said. “I struck off to the east by
the creek, but I don’t think you could get through
with a load.”

“You have only two wagons; we must try to send
you another, though our teams are busy. Didn’t
you say Mr. Lansing would be back in a day or two?”

“I did, but I got a note this morning saying
he thought he had better go on to Winnipeg, if I could
get along all right. I told him to go and stop
as long as he likes. Considering the state of
the trails, I thought that was wise.”

Flora smiled. She knew what he meant, since
they had agreed that all the seed must be hauled in
before his comrade’s return.

“I’m not going to thank you; it would
be difficult, and George can ride over and do so when
he comes home,” Edgar resumed. “I
know he’ll be astonished when he sees the granary.”

“If he comes only to express his gratitude,
I’m inclined to believe my father would rather
he stayed at home.”

“I can believe it; but I’ve an idea that
Mr. Grant is not the only person to whom thanks are
due.”

Flora looked at him sharply, but she made no direct
answer.

“Your partner,” she said, “compels
one’s sympathy.”

“And one’s liking. I don’t
know how he does so, and it isn’t from any conscious
desire. I suppose it’s a gift of his.”

Seeing she was interested, he went on with a thoughtful
air:

“You see, George isn’t witty, and you
wouldn’t consider him handsome. In fact,
sometimes he’s inclined to be dull, but you feel
that he’s the kind of man you can rely on.
There’s not a trace of meanness in him, and
he never breaks his word. In my opinion, he has
a number of the useful English virtues.”

“What are they, and are they peculiarly English?”

“I’ll call them Teutonic; I believe that’s
their origin. You people and your neighbors
across the frontier have your share of them.”

“Thanks,” smiled Flora. “But
you haven’t begun the catalogue.”

“Things are often easier to recognize than to
describe. At the top of the list, and really
comprising the rest of it, I’d place, in the
language of the country, the practical ability to ‘get
there.’ We’re not in the highest
degree intellectual; we’re not as a rule worshipers
of beauty—­that’s made obvious by the
prairie towns—­and to be thought poetical
makes us shy. In fact, our artistic taste is
strongly defective.”

Page 131

“I’m clearing the ground,” said
Edgar. “Where we shine is in making the
most of material things, turning, for example, these
wilds into wheatfields, holding on through your Arctic
cold and blazing summer heat. We begin with
a tent and an ox-team, and end, in spite of countless
obstacles, with a big brick homestead and a railroad
or an automobile. Men of the Lansing type follow
the same course consistently, even when their interests
are not concerned. Once get an idea into their
minds, convince them that it’s right, and they’ll
transform it into determined action. If they
haven’t tools, they’ll make them or find
something that will serve; effort counts for nothing;
the purpose will be carried out.”

Flora noticed the enthusiastic appreciation of his
comrade which his somewhat humorous speech revealed,
and she thought it justified.

“One would imagine Mr. Lansing to be resolute,”
she said. “I dare say it’s fortunate;
he had a heavy loss to face last year.”

“Yes,” returned Edgar. “As
you see, he’s going on; though he never expected
anything for himself.”

Edgar realized that he had been injudicious.
Flora did not know that Sylvia Marston was still
the owner of the farm and he hesitated to enlighten
her.

“Well,” he said, “George isn’t
greedy; it isn’t in his nature.”

“Do you mean that he’s a rich man and
is merely farming for amusement?”

“Oh, no,” said Edgar; “far from
it!” He indicated the miry wagons and the torn-up
trails. “You wouldn’t expect a man
to do this kind of thing, if it wasn’t needful.
The fact is, I don’t always express myself
very happily; and George has told me that I talk too
much.”

Flora smiled and drove away shortly afterward, considering
what he had said. She had noticed a trace of
confusion in his manner and it struck her as significant.

When the buggy had grown small in the distance, Edgar
called to Grierson and they went on again.

CHAPTER XXIV

GEORGE FEELS GRATEFUL

When George returned from Winnipeg, Edgar took him
to the granary.

“You may as well look at the seed Grant sent
you, and then you’ll be able to thank him for
it,” he said. “It’s in here;
I turned out the common northern stuff you bought
to make room.”

“Why didn’t you put it into the empty
place in the barn?” George asked.

“I wasn’t sure it would go in; there’s
rather a lot of it,” Edgar explained, with a
smile.

George entered the granary and stopped, astonished,
when he saw the great pile of bags.

“Is all of that the new seed?” he asked
incredulously.

“Every bag,” said Edgar, watching him.

Page 132

George’s face reddened. He was stirred
by mixed emotions: relief, gratitude, and a feeling
of confusion he could not analyze.

“Grant must have sent the whole carload!”
he broke out.

“As a matter of fact, he sent most of it.
Grierson and I hauled it in; and a tough job we had
of it.”

“And you took it all, without protesting or
sending me word?”

“Yes,” said Edgar coolly; “that’s
precisely what I did. You need the stuff; Grant
meant you to have it, and I didn’t want to offend
him.”

“I suppose you have some idea what that seed
is worth?”

“I dare say I could guess. Our people
at home once experimented with some American seed
potatoes at three shillings each. But aren’t
you putting the matter on a rather low plane?”

George sat down and felt for his pipe.

“I feel that you have played a trick on me.
If you had only let me know, I could have objected.”

“What have I done that I should get this favor?”
George said half aloud.

“That’s so characteristic!” Edgar
exclaimed. “Why must you always be doing
things? Do you imagine that whatever one receives
is the result of so much exertion?”

“I don’t feel the least interest in such
quibbles.”

“I can’t believe it,” Edgar rejoined.
“You’re more at home when you have a
fence to put up, or a strip of new land to break.”
Then he dropped his bantering tone. “There’s
nothing to be distressed about. Grant has been
pretty generous, and I think he and Flora need thanking.”

“In my opinion, the sensation’s quite
unnecessary. You have given a few people a lift
in your time, and I’ve an optimistic notion that
actions of the kind recoil on one, even though it’s
a different person who makes you some return.”

“I wish you would stop talking!” George
exclaimed impatiently.

Edgar mentally compared Flora Grant with Sylvia, in
whom he disbelieved, and found it hard to restrain
himself. It was, he felt, a great misfortune
that George could not be made to see.

“Oh, well!” he acquiesced. “I
could say a good deal more, if I thought it would
do any good, but as that doesn’t seem likely
I’ll dry up.”

“That’s a comfort,” George said
shortly.

He left the granary in a thoughtful mood, and on the
following evening drove over to the Grant homestead.
Its owner was busy somewhere outside when he reached
it, but Flora received him and he sat down with satisfaction
to talk to her. It had become a pleasure to visit
the Grants; he felt at home in their house.
The absence of all ceremony, the simple Canadian life,
had a growing attraction for him. One could
get to know these people, which was a different thing

Page 133

from merely meeting them, and George thought this
was to some extent the effect of their surroundings.
He had always been conscious of a closer and more
intimate contact with his friends upon the mountain-side
or the banks of some salmon river than he had ever
experienced in a club or drawing-room. For all
that, Flora sometimes slightly puzzled him. She
was free from the affectations and restraints of artificial
conventionality, but there was a reserve about her
which he failed to penetrate. He wondered what
lay behind it and had a curious feeling that Edgar
either guessed or knew.

“Did you enjoy your visit to Winnipeg?”
she asked.

“It was a pleasant change and I got through
my business satisfactorily. Of course, I didn’t
go for amusement.”

Flora laughed.

“So I supposed; you’re growing more Canadian
every day. But you meant to make a visit to
England, which couldn’t have had any connection
with business, last winter, didn’t you?”

George’s face grew serious. He had, she
thought, not got over his disappointment.

“Yes,” he said. “But there
was nothing to be done here then.”

“So the things that should be done invariably
come first with you?”

“In this case—­I mean as far as they
concern the farm—­it’s necessary.”

Flora considered his answer, studying him quietly,
though she had some sewing in her hands. Supposing,
as she had once thought, there was some English girl
he had longed to see, he could have made the journey
later, when his crop had been sown, even though this
entailed some neglect of minor operations that required
his care. He received, as she had learned with
interest, few English letters, so there was nobody
to whom he wrote regularly; and yet his disappointment
when forced to abandon his visit had obviously been
keen. There was, Flora thought, a mystery here.

“After all,” she said, “the feeling
you have indicated is pretty common in the Canadian
wheat-belt.”

“Then why should you expect me to be an exception?
As a matter of fact, I’m at least as anxious
as my neighbors to be successful. That’s
partly why I’ve come over to-night.”
His voice grew deeper and softer as he continued.
“I want to thank you and your father for your
surprising generosity.”

“Surprising?” responded Flora lightly,
though she was stirred by the signs of feeling he
displayed. “Do you know you’re not
altogether complimentary?”

He smiled.

“You’ll forgive the slip; when one feels
strongly, it’s difficult to choose one’s
words. Anyway, to get that seed, and so much
of it, is an immense relief. I’m deeply
grateful; the more so because your action was so spontaneous.
I haven’t a shadow of a claim on you.”

Flora put down her sewing and looked at him directly.

“I don’t think you ought to say that—­do
you wish to be considered a stranger?”

“No,” George declared impulsively.
“It’s the last thing I want. Still,
you see—­”

Page 134

She was pleased with his eagerness, but she checked
him.

“Then, as you have a gift of making friends,
you must take the consequences.”

“I didn’t know I had the gift. My
real friends aren’t plentiful.”

“If you begin to count, you may find them more
numerous than you think.”

“Those I have made in Canada head the list.”

The girl felt a thrill of satisfaction. This
was not a compliment; he had spoken from his heart.

“After all, I don’t see why you should
insist on thanking me as well as my father, who really
sent you the seed.” She paused. “You
didn’t do so on the last occasion; I mean at
the time when it was promised to you.”

This was correct, and George was conscious of some
embarrassment.

“Well,” he said firmly, “I think
I’m justified.”

Flora could not contradict him, and she was glad he
felt as he did. She liked his way of sticking
to the point; indeed, she was sensible of a strong
liking for the man.

During the next minute or two her father came in.
He cut short George’s thanks, and then took
out his pipe.

“I was in at the Butte yesterday,” he
said. “The police have got the men who
knocked Farren out, and Flett says they mean to press
for a smart penalty. It’s about time they
made an example of somebody. When I was in,
I fixed it up to turn Langside off his holding.”

Flora looked up with interest.

“But how had you the power?” George asked.

“The man owes me four hundred dollars for a
horse and some second-hand implements I let him have
nearly three years ago.”

“But he has broken a big strip of his land;
it’s worth a good deal more than you lent him.”

“Just so. He owes everybody money round
the Butte. I saw Taunton of the store and the
implement man and told them Langside had to quit.”

“You seem to have found them willing to agree.”

Grant broke into a grim smile.

“What I say to those men goes. Then I’ve
got security; they know I could pull Langside down.”

George looked at Flora and was slightly surprised
at her acquiescent manner.

“It sounds a little harsh; a good harvest might
have set him straight,” he said. “However,
I suppose you have a reason for what you’re doing.”

“That’s so. Langside’s the
kind of man I’ve no use for; he takes no interest
in his place. After he has put in half a crop,
he goes off and spends his time doing a little railroad
work and slouching round the saloons along the line.”

“It doesn’t seem sufficient to justify
your ruining him.”

“I’ve got a little more against the man.
Has it struck you that somebody round here, who knows
the trails and the farmers’ movements, is standing
in with the liquor boys.”

A light broke in upon George. Now that the matter
had been put before him, he could recollect a number
of points that seemed to prove the fanner right.
When cattle had been killed, their owners had been
absent; horses had disappeared at a time which prevented
the discovery of their loss from being promptly made.
It looked as if the offenses could only have been
committed with the connivance of somebody in the neighborhood
who had supplied their perpetrators with information.

Page 135

“I believe you’ve got at the truth,”
he replied. “Still, it must be largely
a matter of suspicion.”

Grant leaned forward on the table and his face grew
stern.

“You’ll remember what Flett said about
our system of justice sometimes breaking down.
In this matter, I’m the jury, and I’ve
thought the thing over for the last six months, weighing
up all that could be said for Langside, though it
isn’t much. What’s more, I’ve
talked to the man and watched him; giving him every
chance. He has had his trial and he has to go;
there’s no appeal.”

George could imagine the thoroughness with which his
host had undertaken his task. Grant would be
just, deciding nothing without the closest test.
George felt that the man he meant to punish must be
guilty. For all that, he looked at Flora.

“Have you been consulted?” he asked.

“I understood,” said Flora. “And
I agreed.”

Her face was as hard as her father’s and George
was puzzled.

“I should have thought you would have been inclined
to mercy.”

Flora colored a little, but she looked at him steadily.

“Langside deserves the punishment he has so
far escaped. He’s guilty of what my father
thinks, but there’s another offense that I’m
afraid will never be brought home to him.”

George admired her courage as he remembered a very
unpleasant story he had heard about a pretty waitress
at the settlement. As a matter of fact, he had
doubted it.

“Flora went to see the girl at Regina.
They found her there pretty near dying,” Grant
explained quietly.

Recollecting a scene outside the Sachem, when Flora
had accompanied Mrs. Nelson, George realized that
he had rather overlooked one side of her character.
She could face unpleasant things and strive to put
them right, and she could be sternly just without
shrinking when occasion demanded it. This, however,
was not an aspect of hers that struck one forcibly;
he had generally seen her compassionate, cheerful,
and considerate. Then he told himself that there
was no reason why he should take any interest in Flora
Grant’s qualities.

“I suppose Langside will be sold up,”
he said.

“Open auction, though I guess there won’t
be much bidding. Folks round here don’t
know the man as I do, but they’ve good reason
to believe the money will go to his creditors, and
there’ll be nothing left for him.”

“The foreclosure won’t meet with general
favor,” George said pointedly.

“That doesn’t count. It strikes
one as curious that people should be ready to sympathize
with the slouch who lets his place go to ruin out
of laziness, and never think of the storekeepers’
just claim on the money he’s wasted. Anyway,
there’s nothing to stop people from bidding;
but, in case they hold off, we have fixed up how we’ll
divide the property.”

It was obvious to George that the position of Grant’s
associates was unassailable. If any friends
of Langside’s attempted to run prices up, they
would only put the money into his creditor’s
pockets; if, as seemed more probable, they discouraged
the bidding, the creditors would secure his possessions
at a low figure and recoup themselves by selling later
at the proper value. George realized that Grant
had carefully thought out his plans.

Page 136

“I don’t think you have left him any way
of escape,” he said.

“No,” replied Grant; “we have got
him tight. You had better come along to the
auction—­you’ll get notice of it—­and
see how the thing goes.”

George said that he would do so, and shortly afterward
drove away. On reaching home he told Edgar what
he had heard, and the lad listened with a thoughtful
expression.

“One can’t doubt that Grant knows what
he’s doing, but I’m not sure he’s
wise,” he said. “Though Langside’s
a regular slacker, he has a good many friends, and
as a rule nobody has much sympathy with exacting creditors.
Then it’s bound to come out that it was Grant
who set the other fellows after Langside; and if he
buys up much of the property at a low figure, the
thing will look suspicious.”

“I tried to point that out.”

“And found you had wasted words? Grant
would see it before you did, and it wouldn’t
have the least effect on him. You wouldn’t
expect that man to yield to popular opinion.
Still, the thing will make trouble, though I shall
not be sorry if it forces on a crisis.”

George nodded.

“I’m getting tired of these continual
petty worries, and keeping a ceaseless lookout.
I want to hit back.”

“You’ll no doubt get your chance.
What about Miss Grant’s attitude?”

“She agreed with her father completely; I was
a little surprised.”

“That was quite uncalled for,” said Edgar
with a smile. “It looks as if you didn’t
know the girl yet. These Westerners are a pretty
grim people.”

George frowned at this, though he felt that there
was some truth in what his companion said. On
the whole, he was of the same mind as Grant; there
were situations in which one must fearlessly take a
drastic course.

“The sooner the trouble begins, the sooner it
will be over,” he said. “One has
now and then to run the risk of getting hurt.”

CHAPTER XXV

A COUNTERSTROKE

Langside’s farm was duly put up at auction,
together with a valuable team which he hired out to
his neighbors when he left the place, a few implements
and a little rude furniture. The sale was held
outside, and when George arrived upon the scene during
the afternoon a row of light wagons and buggies stood
behind the rickety shack, near which was an unsightly
pile of broken crockery, discarded clothes and rusty
provision cans. It was characteristic of Langside
that he had not taken the trouble to carry them as
far as the neighboring bluff. In front of the
bluff, horses were picketed; along the side ran a strip
of black soil, sprinkled with the fresh blades of
wheat; and all round the rest of the wide circle the
prairie stretched away under cloudless sunshine, flecked
with brightest green.

Page 137

A thin crowd surrounded the auctioneer’s table,
but the men stood in loose clusters, and George, walking
through them, noticed that the undesirable element
was largely represented. There were a number
of small farmers, attracted by curiosity, or perhaps
a wish to buy; but these kept to themselves, and men
from the settlement of no fixed profession who worked
spasmodically at different tasks, and spent the rest
of their time in the Sachem, were more plentiful.
Besides these, there were some strangers, and George
thought the appearance of several was far from prepossessing.

It was a glorious day. There was vigor in the
warm breeze that swept the grassy waste; the sunshine
that bathed the black loam where the green blades
were springing up seemed filled with promise; but as
the sale proceeded George became sensible of a vague
compunction. The sight of the new wheat troubled
him—­Langside had laboriously sown that
crop, which somebody else would reap. Watching
the battered domestic utensils and furniture being
carried out for sale had the same disturbing effect.
Poor and comfortless as the shack was, it had, until
rude hands had desecrated it, been a home. George
felt that he was consenting to the ruin of a defenseless
man, assisting to drive him forth, a wanderer and
an outcast. He wondered how far the terrors of
loneliness had urged Langside into his reckless courses—­homesteaders
scattered about the wide, empty spaces occasionally
became insane—­but with an effort he overcame
the sense of pity.

Langside had slackly given way, and, choosing an evil
part, had become a menace to the community; as Grant
had said, he must go. This was unavoidable,
and though the duty of getting rid of him was painful,
it must be carried out. George was usually unsuspicious
and of easy-going nature up to a certain point, but
there was a vein of hardness in him.

Once or twice the auctioneer was interrupted by jeering
cries, but he kept his temper and the sale went on,
though George noticed that only a few strangers made
any purchases. At length, when the small sundries
had been cleared off, there was a curious silence as
the land was put up. It was evident that the
majority of those present had been warned not to bid.

The auctioneer made a little speech in praise of the
property, and paused when it fell flat; then, while
George wondered what understanding the creditors had
arrived at with Grant, a brown-faced stranger strode
forward.

“I’ve been advised to let this place alone,”
he said. “I suppose you have a right to
sell?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the auctioneer.
“Come along, and look at my authority, if you
want. It’s mortgaged property that has
been foreclosed after the creditors had waited a long
while for a settlement, and I may say that the interest
demanded is under the present market rate. Everything’s
quite regular; no injustice has been done. If
you’re a purchaser, I’ll take your bid.”

Page 138

“Then I’ll raise you a hundred dollars,”
said the man.

There was a growl of dissatisfaction, and the stranger
turned to the part of the crowd from which it proceeded.

“This is an open auction, boys. I was
born in the next province, and I’ve seen a good
many farms seized in the years when we have had harvest
frost, but this is the first time I ever saw anybody
try to interfere with a legal sale. Guess you
may as well quit yapping, unless you mean to bid against
me.”

There was derisive laughter, and a loafer from Sage
Butte threw a clod. Then another growl, more
angry than the first, broke out as Grant, moving forward
into a prominent place, nodded to the auctioneer.
His rugged face was impassive, and he ignored the
crowd. A number of the farmers strolled toward
him and stood near by with a resolute air which had
its effect on the others, though George saw by Grant’s
look of surprise that he had not expected this.
Another man made a bid, and the competition proceeded
languidly, but except for a little mocking laughter
and an occasional jeer, nobody interfered. In
the end, the stranger bought the land; and soon afterward
Grant walked up to George.

“I want the team, if I can get it at a reasonable
figure; they’re real good beasts with the imported
Percheron strain strong in them,” he said.
“It will be a while before they’re put
up, and I’d be glad if you could ride round
and let Flora know what’s keeping me. I’d
an idea she expected there might be some trouble to-day.”

“I’ll get off; but there’s a mower
yonder I would like. Will you buy it for me,
if it goes at a fair price?”

“Certainly,” promised Grant. “Tell
Flora to give you supper; and if you ride back afterward
by the trail, you’ll meet me and I’ll let
you know about the mower.”

George rode away shortly afterward, and Grant waited
some time before he secured the team, after rather
determined opposition. Finding nobody willing
to lead the horses home, he hitched them to the back
of his light wagon and set off at a leisurely pace.
When he had gone a little distance, he overtook a
man plodding along the trail. The fellow stopped
when Grant came up.

“Will you give me a lift?” he asked.

The request is seldom refused on the prairie, and
Grant pulled up his team.

“Get in,” he said. “Where
are you going?”

“North,” answered the other, as he clambered
up. “Looking for a job; left the railroad
yesterday and spent the night in a patch of scrub.
Heard there was stock in the bluff country; that’s
my line.”

Grant glanced at the fellow sharply as he got into
the wagon and noticed nothing in his disfavor.
His laconic account of himself was borne out by his
appearance.

“It’s quite a way to the first homestead,
if you’re making for the big bluffs,”
he said. “You had better come along with
me and go on in the morning.”

Page 139

They drove on, and after a while the stranger glanced
at the team hitched behind the vehicle.

“Pretty good beasts,” he remarked.
“That mare’s a daisy. Ought to be
worth a pile.”

“She cost it,” Grant told him. “I’ve
just bought her at a sale.”

“I heard the boys talking about it when I was
getting dinner at the settlement,” said the
stranger carelessly. “Called the fellow
whose place was sold up Langside, I think. There’s
nothing much wrong with the team you’re driving.”

Grant nodded; they were valuable animals, for he was
fond of good horses. He was well satisfied with
his new purchases and knew that Langside had bought
the mare after a profitable haulage contract during
the building of a new railroad. His companion’s
flattering opinion made him feel rather amiable toward
him.

It was getting near dusk when they entered a strip
of broken country, where the ground was sandy and
lolled in low ridges and steep hillocks. Here
and there small pines on the higher summits stood out
black against the glaring crimson light; birches and
poplars straggled up some of the slopes; and the trail,
which wound through the hollows, was loose and heavy.
The moist sand clogged the wheels and the team plodded
through it laboriously, until they came to a spot where
the melted snow running into a depression had formed
a shallow lake. This had dried up, but the soil
was very soft and marshy. Grant pulled up and
glanced dubiously at the deep ruts cut in the road.

“There’s a way round through the sand
and scrub, but it’s mighty rough and I’m
not sure we could get through it in the dark,”
he said.

“S’pose you double-yoke and drive straight
ahead,” suggested the other. “I see
you have some harness in the wagon.”

Grant considered. The harness, which had been
thrown in with his purchase, was old and short of
one or two pieces; it would take time and some contriving
to hitch on the second team, and the light was failing
rapidly. When he had crossed the soft place,
there would still be some rough ground to traverse
before he reached the smoother trail by which George
would be riding.

“It might be as quick to go round,” he
replied.

“No, sir,” said his companion, firmly.
“There’s a blamed steep bit up the big
sandhill.”

Suspicion flashed on Grant; the man had led him to
believe he was a stranger to the locality, and it
was significant that he should insist upon their stopping
and harnessing the second team.

“That’s so,” he returned.
“Guess you had better get down and see if it’s
very soft ahead.”

Page 140

The fellow rose with a promptness which partly disarmed
Grant’s suspicions, and put his foot on the
edge of the vehicle, ready to jump down. Then
he turned swiftly and flung himself upon the farmer,
crushing his soft felt hat down to his chin.
Grant could see nothing, and while he strove to get
a grip on his antagonist he was thrown violently backward
off the driving seat. The wagon was of the usual
high pattern, and he came down on the ground with a
crash that nearly knocked him unconscious. Before
he got up, he was seized firmly and held with his
shoulders pressed against the soil. He struggled,
however, until somebody grasped his legs and his arms
were drawn forcibly apart. It was impossible
to see, because the thick hat was still over his face
and somebody held it fast, but he had an idea that
three or four men had fallen upon him. They had,
no doubt, been hidden among the brush; the affair
had been carefully arranged with his treacherous companion.

“Open his jacket; try the inside pocket,”
cried one; and he felt hands fumbling about him.
Then there was a disappointed exclamation. “Check-book;
that’s no good!”

The farmer made a last determined effort. After
having long ruled his household and hired men as a
benevolent but decidedly firm-handed autocrat, it
was singularly galling to be treated in this unceremonious
fashion, and if he could only shake off the hat and
get a glimpse of his assailants he would know them
again. Moreover, he had brought a roll of bills
with him, in case he should make some small purchases.
He was, however, held firmly, and the hands he had
felt dived into another pocket.

“Got it now!” cried a hoarse voice.
“Here’s his wallet; seems to have a good
wad in it!”

Grant, though he was generally sternly collected,
boiled with fury. He felt no fear, but an uncontrollable
longing to grapple with the men who had so humiliated
him.

“Guess, I’ll fix you up!” came an
angry voice when Grant managed to fling off one pair
of hands.

Then he received a heavy blow on the head. Somebody
had struck him with the butt of a whip or riding quirt.
The pain was distressing; he felt dazed and stupid,
disinclined to move, but he retained consciousness.
There were sounds to which he could attach a meaning:
a rattle of harness which indicated that his driving
team was being loosened, a thud of hoofs as the heavier
Percherons were led away. In the meanwhile he
could still feel a strong grasp on his shoulder, holding
him down, and once or twice a man near him gave the
others sharp instructions. Grant made a languid
effort to fix the voice in his memory, but this was
difficult because his mind worked heavily.

At length the driving team was unyoked—­he
could hear it being led away—­but the ache
in his head grew almost intolerable and his lassitude
more intense. For a while he had no idea what
was going on; and then a hoarse cry, which seemed
one of alarm, rang out sharply. There was a patter
of running feet, a thud of hoofs on the soft soil,
and, breaking through these sounds, a rhythmic staccato
drumming. Somebody was riding hard across the
uneven ground.

Page 141

Gathering his languid senses, Grant suddenly moved
his head, flinging the hat from his face, and raised
himself a little, leaning on one elbow. There
was no longer anybody near him, but he could see a
man riding past a shadowy clump of trees a little
distance off, leading a second horse. Closer
at hand, another man was running hard beside one of
the Percherons, and while Grant watched him he made
an effort to scramble up on the back of the unsaddled
animal, but slipped off. Both these men were
indistinct in the dim hollow, but on a sandy ridge
above, which still caught the fading light, there was
a sharply-outlined mounted figure sweeping across
the broken ground at a reckless gallop. It must
be Lansing, who had come to the rescue. Grant
sent up a faint, hoarse cry of exultation. He
forgot his pain and dizziness, he even forgot he had
been assaulted; he was conscious only of a burning
wish to see Lansing ride down the fellow who was running
beside the Percheron.

There was a patch of thick scrub not far ahead which
it would be difficult for the horseman on the rise
to break through, and if the fugitive could succeed
in mounting, he might escape while his pursuer rode
round; but Lansing seemed to recognize this.
He swept down from the ridge furiously and rode to
cut off the thief. Grant saw him come up with
the fellow, with his quirt swung high, but the figures
of men and horses were now indistinct against the
shrub. There was a blow struck; one of the animals
reared, plunged and fell; the other went on and vanished
into the gloom of the dwarf trees.

Then Grant, without remembering how he got up, found
himself upon his feet and lurching unsteadily toward
the clump of brush. When he reached it, Lansing
was standing beside his trembling horse, which had
a long red gash down its shoulder. His hands
were stained and a big discolored knife lay near his
feet. There was nobody else about, but a beat
of hoofs came back, growing fainter, out of the gathering
dusk.

George looked around when the farmer joined him, and
then pointed to the wound on the horse.

“I think it was meant for my leg,” he
said. “I hit the fellow once with the
thick end of the quirt, but he jumped straight at me.
The horse reared when he felt the knife and I came
off before he fell. When I got up again, the
fellow had gone.”

Grant felt scarcely capable of standing. He
sat down heavily and fumbled for his pipe, while George
turned his attention to the horse again.

“Though it’s only in the muscle, the cut
looks deep,” he said at length. “I’d
better lead him back to your place; it’s nearer
than mine.”

“I’d rather you came along; I’m
a bit shaky.”

“Of course,” said George. “I
was forgetting. Those fellows had you down.
Are you hurt?”

“They knocked me out with something heavy—­my
whip, I guess—­but I’m getting over
it. Cleaned out my pockets; went off with both
teams.”

Page 142

George nodded.

“It’s pretty bad; quite impossible to
get after them. They’ll head for Montana
as fast as they can ride.”

“Did you see any of them clearly?”

“One fellow looked like Langside, though I couldn’t
swear to him; but I’d know the man who knifed
my horse. Remembered that would be desirable,
in case he escaped me; and I got a good look at him.
Now, if you feel able shall we make a start?
I’m afraid the horse is too lame to carry you.”

He picked up the knife. Grant rose, and they
set off, leading the horse, which moved slowly and
painfully. It had grown dark and the trail was
rough, but the farmer plodded homeward, stopping a
few moments now and then. The path, however,
grew smoother when they had left the sandy ridges
behind, and by and by the lights of the homestead
commenced to twinkle on the vast shadowy plain.
Soon after they reached it, George rode away, mounted
on a fresh horse, in search of Constable Flett.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE CLIMAX

George was tired and sleepy when he reached the settlement
early in the morning, and found Flett at Hardie’s
house. It transpired from their conversation
that there had been a disturbance at the Sachem on
the return of a party which had driven out to the
sale, and one man, who accused a companion of depriving
him of a bargain, had attacked and badly injured him
with a decanter. Flett, being sent for, had arrested
the fellow, and afterward called upon the clergyman
for information about his antecedents and character.
He listened with close attention while George told
his tale; and then examined the knife he produced.

“This is about the limit!” he exclaimed.
“You wouldn’t have persuaded me that
the thing was possible when I was first sent into the
district. It isn’t what one expects in
the wheat-belt, and it certainly has to be stopped.”

“Of course,” said George, with some impatience.
“But wouldn’t it be wiser to consider
the ways and means? At present the fellows are
no doubt pushing on for the frontier with two valuable
teams and a wad of stolen bills.”

Flett smiled at him indulgently.

“This isn’t a job that can be put through
in a hurry. If they’re heading for the
boundary—­and I guess they are—­they’ll
be in Dakota or Montana long before any of the boys
I’ll wire to could come up with them.
Our authority doesn’t hold on American soil.”

“Is that to be the end of it?”

“Why, no,” Flett answered dryly.
“As I guess you have heard, they have had trouble
of this kind in Alberta for a while; and most every
time the boys were able to send back any American
mavericks and beef-cattle that were run into Canada.
As the result of it, our chiefs at Regina are pretty
good friends with the sheriffs and deputies on the
other side. They’re generally willing
to help us where they can.”

Page 143

“Then you shouldn’t have much difficulty
in trailing your men. Suppose a fellow turned
up with four exceptionally good horses and offered
them to an American farmer or dealer, wouldn’t
it arouse suspicion?”

“It might,” said Flett, with a meaning
smile. “But the thing’s not so simple
as it looks. We all know that Canadian steers
and horses have been run off and disposed of across
the frontier; and now and then a few from that side
have disappeared in Canada. This points to there
being a way of getting rid of them; some mean white
on a lonely holding will take them at half-value,
and pass them along. What we have to do is to
send a man over quietly to investigate, and get the
sheriffs and deputies to keep their eyes open.
I’m going to beg the Regina people to let me
be that man.”

“You may as well understand that it isn’t
the return of the horses Grant wants so much as the
conviction of the men who waylaid him.”

“Then,” said Flett, pointedly, “he
must be mighty mad.”

Hardie joined in George’s laugh; but the constable
went on:

“I believe we’re going to get them; but
it will take time—­all summer, perhaps.
I’ve known our boys lay hands on a man they
wanted, eighteen months afterward.”

“In one way, I don’t think that’s
much to their credit,” the clergyman remarked.

Taking up the knife George had handed him, Flett pointed
to some initials scratched on the bone haft.

“Kind of foolish thing for the fellow to put
his name on his tools; but I don’t know anybody
those letters might stand for. Now you describe
him as clearly as you can, while I put it down.”

George did as he was bidden, and added: “There
were two more—­one of them looked like Langside—­and
I believe a fourth man, though I may be mistaken in
this. They were moving about pretty rapidly and
the light was bad.”

Flett got up.

“I’ll have word sent along to Regina,
and then try to locate their trail until instructions
come. I want to get about it right away, but
there’s this blamed fellow who knocked out his
partner at the Sachem, and it will take me most of
a day’s ride before I can hand him on to Davies.
It’s a charge that nobody’s going to worry
about, and it’s a pity he couldn’t have
escaped. Still, that’s the kind of thing
that can’t happen too often.”

He went out and George turned to Hardie.

“How does the matter strike you?”

“I’ve an idea that Flett was right in
saying it was the limit. There was a certain
romance about these disturbances when they began; they
were a novelty in this part of Canada. People
took them lightly, glad of something amusing or exciting
to talk about. It was through popular indifference
that the gang first gained a footing, but by degrees
it became evident that they couldn’t be dislodged
without a vigorous effort. People shrank from
making it; and, with Beamish backing them, the fellows
got steadily bolder and better organized. All
the time, however, they were really at the mercy of
the general body of orderly citizens. Now they
have gone too far; this last affair can’t be
tolerated. Instead of apathy, there’ll
be an outbreak of indignation; and I expect the people
who might have stopped the thing at the beginning
will denounce the police.”

Page 144

George nodded.

“That’s my idea. What’s our
part?”

“I think it’s to assist in the reaction.
Your story’s a striking one. We had better
get it into a newspaper as soon as possible.
I suppose it would be correct to say that Grant was
cruelly beaten?”

“His face is blue from jaw to temple.
They knocked him nearly senseless with the butt of
a whip, while he was lying, helpless, on the ground.”

“And your horse was badly wounded?”

“I wish it weren’t true; there’s
a gash about eight inches long. If it will assist
the cause, you can say the stab was meant for me.”

“Well,” said Hardie, “I think it
will make a moving tale. I’m afraid, however,
I’ll have to lay some stress upon the single-handed
rescue.”

George looked dubious.

“I’d rather you left that out.”

“We must impress the matter on people’s
thoughts, make it command attention; a little diplomacy
is allowable now and then,” said Hardie, smiling.
“Since you don’t mind getting yourself
into trouble, I don’t see why you should object
to being held up to admiration, and it’s in
an excellent cause. Now, however, I’ll
order breakfast for you, and then you had better get
some sleep.”

During the afternoon, George set off for home, and
he was plowing for the summer fallow a week later
when Flora Grant rode up to him.

“I suppose you have got your mail and have seen
what the Sentinel says about you?” she
asked mischievously.

George looked uncomfortable, but he laughed.

“Yes,” he confessed. “It seemed
to afford Edgar some amusement.”

“Who’s responsible for that flattering
column? It doesn’t read like the work
of the regular staff.”

“I’m afraid that I am, to some extent,
though Hardie’s the actual culprit. The
fact is, he thought the course was necessary.”

“Well, I suspected something of the kind; so
did my father. It was a wise move, and I think
it will have its effect.”

George made no comment and she sat silent a moment
or two while he watched her with appreciation.
She was well-mounted on a beautiful, carefully-groomed
horse; the simple skirt and bodice of pale gray emphasized
the pure tinting of her face and hands and the warm
glow of her hair, in which the fierce sunshine forced
up strong coppery gleams. Her lips formed a patch
of crimson, there was a red band on her wide Stetson
hat, and her eyes shone a deep blue as she looked down
at George, who stood in the sandy furrow leaning against
the heavy plow. He was dressed in old overalls
that had faded with dust and sun to the indefinite
color of the soil, but they displayed the fine lines
of a firmly knit and muscular figure. His face
was deeply bronzed, but a glow of sanguine red shone
through its duskier coloring. Behind them both
ran a broad sweep of stubble, steeped in strong ochre,
relieved by brighter lemon hues where the light blazed
on it.

Page 145

“Though I couldn’t resist the temptation
to tease you, I quite agree with the Sentinel,”
she resumed. “It really was a very gallant
rescue, and I suppose you know I recognize my debt
to you. I was a little too startled to speak
about it when you brought my father home, and you
went away so fast.”

“The fellows were afraid of being identified;
they bolted as soon as they saw me.”

“One didn’t,” Flora pointed out.
“A knife-thrust, like the one you avoided,
or a pistol-shot would have obviated any risk they
ran. But of course you hate to be thanked.”

“No,” George replied impulsively; “not
by you.”

“I wonder,” she said with an amused air,
“why you should make an exception of me?”

“I suppose it lessens my sense of obligation.
I feel I’ve done some little thing to pay you
back.”

“I’m not sure that was very happily expressed.
Is it painful to feel that you owe anything to your
neighbors?”

George flushed.

“That wasn’t what I meant. Do you
think it’s quite fair to lay traps for me, when
you can count on my falling into them?” He turned
and pointed to the great stretch of grain that clothed
the soil with vivid green. “Look at your
work. Last fall, all that plowing was strewn
with a wrecked and mangled crop; now it’s sown
with wheat that will stand the drought. I was
feeling nearly desperate, wondering how I was to master
the sandy waste, when you came to the rescue and my
troubles melted like the dust in summer rain.
They couldn’t stand before you; you banished
them.”

She looked at him rather curiously, and, George thought,
with some cause, for he was a little astonished at
his outbreak. This was not the kind of language
that was most natural to him.

“I wonder,” she said, “why you should
take so much for granted—­I mean in holding
me accountable?”

“It’s obvious,” George declared.
“I understand your father; he’s a very
generous friend, but the idea of sending me the seed
didn’t occur to him in the first place; though
I haven’t the least doubt that he was glad to
act on it.”

“Ah!” said Flora, “it looks as if
you had been acquiring some penetration; you were
not so explicit the last time you insisted on thanking
me. Who can have been teaching you? It
seems, however, that I’m still incomprehensible.”

George considered. It would be undesirable to
explain that his enlightenment had come from Edgar,
and he wanted to express what he felt.

“No,” he said, in answer to her last remark;
“not altogether; but I’ve sometimes felt
that there’s a barrier of reserve in you, beyond
which it’s hard to get.”

“Do you think it would be worth while to make
the attempt? Suppose you succeeded and found
there was nothing on the other side?”

He made a sign of negation, and she watched him with
some interest; the man was trying to thrash out his
ideas.

Page 146

“That couldn’t happen,” he declared
gravely. “Somehow you make one feel there
is much in you that wants discovery, but that one will
learn it by and by. After all, it’s only
the shallow people you never really get to know.”

“It would seem an easy task, on the face of
it.”

“As a matter of fact, it isn’t.
They have a way of enveloping themselves in an air
of importance and mystery, and when they don’t
do so, they’re casual and inconsequent.
One likes people with, so to speak, some continuity
of character. By degrees one gets to know how
they’ll act and it gives one a sense of reliance.”
He paused and added, diffidently: “Anything
you did would be wise and generous.”

“By degrees?” smiled Flora. “So
it’s slowly, by patient sapping, the barriers
go down! One could imagine that such things might
be violently stormed. But you’re not rash,
are you, or often in a hurry? However, it’s
time I was getting home.”

She waved her hand and rode away, and George, getting
into the saddle, started his team, and thought about
her while he listened to the crackling of the stubble
going down beneath the hoofs, and the soft thud of
thrown-back soil as the lengthening rows of clods broke
away from the gleaming shares. What she might
have meant by her last remark he could not tell, though
so far as it concerned him, he was ready to admit
that he was addicted to steady plodding. Then
his thoughts took a wider range, and he began to make
comparisons. Flora was not characterized by
Sylvia’s fastidious refinement; she was more
virile and yet more reposeful. Sylvia’s
activities spread bustle around her; she required
much assistance and everybody in her neighborhood was
usually impressed into her service, though their combined
efforts often led to nothing. Flora’s
work was done silently; the results were most apparent.

Still, the charm Sylvia exerted was always obvious;
a thing to rejoice in and be thankful for. Flora
had not the same effect on one, though he suspected
there was a depth of tenderness in her, behind the
barrier. It struck him as a pity that she showed
no signs of interest in West, who of late seemed to
have been attracted by the pretty daughter of a storekeeper
at the settlement; but, after all, the lad was hardly
old or serious enough for Flora. There was, however,
nobody else in the district who was nearly good enough
for her; and George felt glad that she was reserved
and critical. It would be disagreeable to contemplate
her yielding to any suitor unless he were a man of
exceptional merit.

Page 147

Then he laughed and called to his horses. He
was thinking about matters that did not concern him;
his work was to drive the long furrow for Sylvia’s
benefit, and he found pleasure in it. Bright
sunshine smote the burnished clods; scattered, white-edged
clouds drove across the sky of dazzling blue, flinging
down cool gray shadows that sped athwart the stubble;
young wheat, wavy lines of bluff, and wide-spread
prairie were steeped in glowing color. The man
rejoiced in the rush of the breeze; the play of straining
muscles swelling and sinking on the bodies of the
team before him was pleasant to watch; he felt at home
in the sun and wind, which, tempered as they often
were by gentle rain, were staunchly assisting him.
By and by, all the foreground of the picture he gazed
upon would be covered with the coppery ears of wheat.
He had once shrunk from returning to Canada; but now,
through all the stress of cold and heat, he was growing
fond of the new land. What was more, he felt
the power to work at such a task as he was now engaged
in to be a privilege.

CHAPTER XXVII

A SIGN FROM FLETT

Summer drew on with swift strides. Crimson flowers
flecked the prairie grass, the wild barley waved its
bristling ears along the trails, saskatoons glowed
red in the shadows of each bluff. Day by day
swift-moving clouds cast flitting shadows across the
sun-scorched plain, but though they shed no moisture
the wheat stood nearly waist-high upon the Marston
farm. The sand that whirled about it did the
strong stalks no harm.

Earlier in the season there had been drenching thunder
showers, and beyond the grain the flax spread in sheets
of delicate blue that broke off on the verge of the
brown-headed timothy. Still farther back lay
the green of alsike and alfalfa, for the band of red
and white cattle that roamed about the bluffs; but
while the fodder crop was bountiful George had decided
to supplement it with the natural prairie hay.
There was no pause in his exertions; task followed
task in swift succession. Rising in the sharp
cold of the dawn, he toiled assiduously until the
sunset splendors died out in paling green and crimson
on the far rim of the plain.

The early summer was marked by signs of approaching
change in Sage Butte affairs. There were still
a few disturbances and Hardie had troubles to face,
but he and his supporters noticed that the indifference
with which they had been regarded was giving place
to sympathy. When Grant first visited the settlement
after his misadventure, he was received with expressions
of indignant commiseration, and he afterward told
Flora dryly that he was astonished at the number of
his friends. Mrs. Nelson and a few of the stalwarts
pressed Hardie to make new and more vigorous efforts
toward the expulsion of the offenders, but the clergyman
refrained. Things were going as he wished; it
was scarcely wise to expose such a tender thing as

Page 148

half-formed opinion to a severe test, and the failure
that might follow a premature attempt could hardly
be recovered from. It seemed better to wait
until Grant’s assailants should be arrested,
and the story of their doings elicited in court, to
rouse general indignation, and he thought this would
happen. Flett had disappeared some weeks ago
and nothing had been heard of him, but Hardie believed
his chiefs had sent him out on the robbers’
trail. The constable combined sound sense with
dogged pertinacity, and these were serviceable qualities.

It was a hot afternoon when George brought home his
last load of wild sloo hay, walking beside his team,
while Flora curbed her reckless horse a few yards
off. She had ridden over with her father, and
finding that George had not returned, had gone on to
prevent a hired man from being sent for him.
They had met each other frequently of late, and George
was sensible of an increasing pleasure in the girl’s
society; though what Flora felt did not appear.
Behind them the jolting wagon strained beneath its
high-piled load that diffused an odor of peppermint;
in front the shadow of a bluff lay cool upon the sun-scorched
prairie.

“I suppose you heard that Baxter lost a steer
last week,” she said. “Most likely,
it was killed; but, though the police searched the
reservation, there was no trace of the hide.
We have had a little quietness, but I’m not
convinced that our troubles won’t break out
again. Nobody seems to have heard anything of
Flett.”

“He’s no doubt busy somewhere.”

“I’m inclined to believe so, and, in a
way, his silence is reassuring. Flett can work
without making a disturbance, and that is in his favor.
But what has become of Mr. West? We haven’t
seen much of him of late.”

“He has fallen into a habit of riding over to
the settlement in his spare time, which isn’t
plentiful.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Flora; “that agrees
with some suspicions of mine. Don’t you
feel a certain amount of responsibility?”

“I do,” George admitted. “Still,
he’s rather head-strong, and he hasn’t
told me why he goes to the Butte; though the girl’s
father gave me a hint. I like Taunton—­he’s
perfectly straightforward—­and I’d
almost made up my mind to ask your opinion about the
matter, but I was diffident.”

“I’ll give it to you without reserve—­there’s
no ground for uneasiness on West’s account;
he might fall into much worse hands. If Helen
Taunton has any influence over him, it will be wisely
used. Besides, she has been well educated; she
spent a few years in Montreal.”

“She has a nice face; in fact, she’s decidedly
pretty.”

“And that would cover a multitude of shortcomings?”

“Well,” said George, thoughtfully, “mere
physical beauty is something to be thankful for; though
I’m not sure that beauty can be, so to speak,
altogether physical. When I said the girl had
a nice face, I meant that its expression suggested
a wholesome character.”

Page 149

“You seem to have been cultivating your powers
of observation,” Flora told him. “But
I’m more disposed to consider the matter from
Helen’s point of view. As it happens,
she’s a friend of mine and I’ve reasons
for believing that your partner’s readily susceptible
and inclined to be fickle. Of course, I’m
not jealous.”

George laughed.

“He’s too venturesome now and then, but
he has been a little spoiled. I’ve an idea
that this affair is likely to be permanent. He
has shown a keen interest in the price of land and
the finances of farming, which struck me as having
its meaning.”

They had now nearly reached the bluff and a horseman
in khaki uniform rode out of it to meet them.

“I’ve been over to your place,”
he said to George, when he had dismounted. “I
was sent to show you a photograph and ask if you can
recognize anybody in it?”

He untied a packet and George studied the picture
handed him. It showed the rutted main street
of a little western town, with the sunlight on a row
of wooden buildings. In the distance a band of
cattle were being driven forward by two mounted men;
nearer at hand a few wagons stood outside a livery
stable; and in the foreground three or four figures
occupied the veranda of a frame hotel. The ease
of their attitudes suggested that they did not know
they were being photographed, and their faces were
distinct. George looked triumphantly excited
and unhesitatingly laid a finger on one face.

“This is the man that drove off Mr. Grant’s
Percheron and stabbed my horse.”

The trooper produced a thin piece of card and a small
reading-glass.

“Take another look through this; it came along
with the photograph. Now, would you be willing
to swear to him?”

“I’ll be glad to do so, if I have the
chance. Shall I put a mark against the fellow?”

“Not on that!” The trooper handed George
the card, which proved to be a carefully drawn key-plan
of the photograph, with the figures outlined.
“You can mark this one.”

George did as he was told, and then handed the photograph
to Flora.

“How did your people get it?” he asked
the trooper.

“I can’t say; they don’t go into
explanations.”

“But what do you think? Did Flett take
the photograph?”

“No, sir; I heard him tell the sergeant he knew
nothing about a camera. He may have got somebody
to take it or may have bought the thing.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“I only know he got special orders after Mr.
Grant was robbed. It’s my idea he was
somewhere around when the photograph was taken.”

“I wonder where it was taken? In Alberta,
perhaps, though I’m inclined to think it was
on the other side of the frontier.”

“That is my opinion,” said Flora.
“There’s not a great difference between
us and our neighbors, but the dress of the mounted
men and the style of the stores are somehow American.
I’d say Montana, or perhaps Dakota.”

Page 150

“Montana,” said the trooper. “The
big bunch of cattle seems to fix it.”

“Then you think Flett is over there?”
asked George. “I’m interested, so
is Miss Grant, and you needn’t be afraid of either
of us spreading what you say.”

“It’s my notion that Flett has spotted
his men, but I guess he’s now watching out near
the boundary in Canada. These rustler fellows
can’t do all their business on one side; they’ll
have to cross now and then. Flett’s in
touch with some of the American sheriffs, who’ll
give him the tip, and the first time the fellows slip
over the frontier he’ll get them. That
would suit everybody better and save a blamed lot of
formalities.”

Flora nodded.

“It strikes me as very likely; and Flett’s
perhaps the best man you could have sent. But
have you shown the photograph to my father?”

“I did that before I left the homestead.
There’s nobody in the picture like the fellow
who drove with Mr. Grant, and he tells me he saw nobody
else. Now I must be getting on.”

He rode away, and Flora reverted to the topic she
and George had been discussing.

“So you believe Mr. West is thinking of living
here altogether! I suppose he would be able
to take a farm of moderate size?”

“It wouldn’t be very large; he can’t
have much money, but his people would help him to
make a start if they were satisfied. That means
they would consult me.”

Flora smiled.

“And you feel you would be in a difficult position,
if you were asked whether it would be wise to let
him marry a prairie girl? Have you formed any
decision about the matter?”

She spoke in an indifferent tone, but George imagined
that she was interested.

“I can’t see why he shouldn’t do
so.”

“Think a little. West has been what you
call well brought up, he’s fastidious, and I
haven’t found English people free from social
prejudices. Could you, as his friend, contemplate
his marrying the daughter of a storekeeper in a rather
primitive western town? Taunton, of course,
is not a polished man.”

“I don’t think that counts; he’s
a very good type in spite of it. The girl’s
pretty, she has excellent manners, and she strikes
me as having sense—­and in some respects
Edgar has very little. I’ll admit that
at one time I might not have approved of the idea,
but I believe I’ve got rid of one or two foolish
opinions that I brought out with me. If Miss
Taunton is what she appears to be, he’s lucky
in getting her. Don’t you think so?”

He had spoken with a little warmth, though, as Flora
knew, he was seldom emphatic; and a rather curious
expression crept into her face. He did not quite
understand it, but he thought she was pleased for some
reason or other!

“Oh,” she said lightly, “I have
told you my opinion.”

Nothing further was said about the subject, but George
walked beside his team in a state of calm content.
His companion was unusually gracious; she made a
picture that was pleasant to watch as she sat, finely
poised, on the big horse, with the strong sunlight
on her face. Her voice was attractive, too; it
reached him, clear and musical, through the thud of
hoofs and the creak of slowly-turning wheels, for
he made no attempt to hurry his team.

Page 151

When they reached the homestead, the conversation
centered on the constable’s visit; and when
the Grants left, Edgar stood outside with George,
watching the slender mounted figure grow smaller beside
the jolting buggy.

“George,” he said, “I’ve met
very few girls who could compare with Flora Grant,
taking her all round.”

“That’s correct,” George told him.
“As a matter of fact, I’m doubtful whether
you have met any who would bear the comparison.
It was the sillier ones who made a fuss over you.”

“I know of one,” Edgar resumed.
“As it happens, she’s in Canada.”

“I’d a suspicion of something of the kind,”
George said dryly.

Edgar made no answer, but presently he changed the
subject.

“What’s the least one could take up a
farm here with, and have a fair chance of success?”

“One understands it has been done with practically
nothing on preempted land, though I’m rather
dubious. In your case, I’d fix five thousand
dollars as the minimum; more would be decidedly better.”

“Yes,” said Edgar thoughtfully; “that’s
about my idea; and I suppose it could be raised, though
my share of what was left us has nearly all been spent
in cramming me with knowledge I’ve no great use
for. Stephen, however, has done pretty well,
and I think he always realized that it would be his
privilege to give me a lift; I’ve no doubt he’ll
write to you as soon as I mention the matter, and your
answer will have its effect.” He looked
at George with anxious eyes. “I venture
to think you’ll strain a point to say what you
can in my favor?”

“In the first place, I’ll ride over to
the Butte and have supper with Taunton, as soon as
I can find the time.”

“I can imagine your trying to weigh up Helen;
starting a subtle conversation to elucidate her character,
and showing what you were after and your profound
ignorance with every word; though you mustn’t
suppose I’d be afraid of submitting her to the
severest test. Why, you wouldn’t even
know when a girl was in love with you, unless she told
you so. Perhaps it’s some excuse that your
mind’s fixed on one woman to the exclusion of
all the rest, though one could imagine that, as you
think of her, she’s as unreal and as far removed
from anything made of flesh and blood as a saint in
a picture. After all, I dare say it’s a
very proper feeling.”

George left him, half amused and half disturbed.
He did not resent Edgar’s freedom of speech,
but the latter had a way of mixing hints that were
not altogether foolish with his badinage, and his comrade
was inclined to wonder what he had meant by one suggestive
remark. It troubled him as he strolled along
the edge of the tall green wheat, but he comforted
himself with the thought that, after all, Edgar’s
conversation was often unworthy of serious consideration.

Page 152

A week later George rode over to the store at the
settlement, feeling a little diffident, because he
had undertaken the visit only from a sense of duty.
He was cordially received, and was presently taken
in to supper, which was served in a pretty room and
presided over by a very attractive girl. She
had a pleasant voice and a quiet face; though he thought
she must have guessed his errand, she treated him with
a composure that set him at his ease. Indeed,
she was by no means the kind of girl he had expected
Edgar to choose; but this was in her favor.
George could find no fault in her.

Shortly after the meal was finished his host was called
away, and the girl looked up at George with a flush
of color creeping, most becomingly, into her face.

“Edgar told me I needn’t be afraid of
you,” she said.

George smiled.

“I can understand his confidence, though it
had a better foundation than my good-nature.
I wonder whether I might venture to say that he has
shown remarkably good sense?”

“I’m glad you don’t think he has
been very foolish,” replied the girl, and it
was obvious to George that she understood the situation.

He made her a little grave bow.

“What I’ve said, I’m ready to stick
to. I’m a friend of Edgar’s, and
that carried an obligation.”

“Yes,” she assented, “but it was
because you are a friend of his and, in a way, represent
his people in England, that I was a little uneasy.”

Her speech implied a good deal and George admired
her candor.

“Well,” he said, “so far as I am
concerned, you must never feel anything of the kind
again. But I think you should have known it was
quite unnecessary.”

She gave him a grateful glance and soon afterward
her father came in.

“Guess we’ll take a smoke in the back
office,” he said to George.

George followed him, and thought he understood why
he was led into the little untidy room strewn with
packets of goods, though his host had a fine commodious
house. Taunton would not attempt to dissociate
himself from his profession; he meant to be taken
for what he was, but he knew his value. He was
a gaunt, elderly man: as far as his general appearance
went, a typical inhabitant of a remote and half-developed
western town, though there was a hint of authority
in his face. Giving George an excellent cigar,
he pointed to a chair.

“Now,” he began, “we must have a
talk. When your partner first came hanging round
my store, buying things he didn’t want, I was
kind of short with him. Helen helps me now and
then with the books, and he seemed to know when she
came in.”

“I noticed he came home in a rather bad temper
once or twice,” George said with a laugh.
“I used to wonder, when he produced sardine
cans at supper, but after a while I began to understand.”

“Well,” continued Taunton, “I didn’t
intend to have any blamed Percy trying to turn my
girl’s head, until I knew what he meant.
I’d nobody to talk it over with—­I
lost her mother long ago—­so I kind of froze
him out, until one day he came dawdling in and asked
if he might take Helen to Jim Haxton’s dance.

Page 153

“‘Does she know you have come to me about
it?’ I said.

“‘Can’t say,’ he told me coolly,
with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. ’I
haven’t mentioned the matter yet; I thought I’d
ask you first.’

“‘S’pose I object?’ I said.

“‘Then,’ he allowed quite tranquil,
’the thing will have to be considered.
There’s not the slightest reason why you should
object.’

“I’d a notion I could agree with him—­I
liked the way he talked—­and I told him
Helen could go, but the next time he called he was
to walk right into the office instead of hanging round
the counter. I asked him what he’d done
with all the canned truck he’d bought, and he
said he was inclined to think his partner had eaten
most of it. Since then he’s been over
pretty often, and I figured it was time I gave you
a hint.”

“Thanks,” responded George. “He
was, in a way, placed in my hands, but I’ve
no real control over him.”

“That’s so; he’s of age. What
I felt was this—­I’ve nothing against
West, but my girl’s good enough for anybody,
and I can’t have his people in England looking
down on her and making trouble. If they’re
not satisfied, they had better call him back right
now. There’s to be no high-toned condescension
in this matter.”

“I don’t think you need be afraid of that,”
said George. “It would be altogether uncalled
for. It’s very likely that I shall be consulted,
and I’ll have pleasure in telling his people
that I consider him a lucky man.”

“There’s another point—­has
West any means?”

“I believe about five thousand dollars could
be raised to put him on a farm.”

Taunton nodded.

“It’s not very much, but I don’t
know that I’m sorry. I’ll see they’re
fixed right; whatever West gets I’ll beat.
My girl shan’t be indebted to her husband’s
folks. But there’s not a word to be said
about this yet. West must wait another year
before we decide on anything.”

George thought the storekeeper’s attitude could
not be found fault with, and when he drove home through
the soft dusk of the summer night, he was glad to
feel that there was no need for anxiety about the choice
Edgar had made.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE LEADING WITNESS

Three or four weeks passed quietly without any news
from Flett until one evening when Edgar sat talking
to Miss Taunton in the office of her father’s
store at Sage Butte. The little, dusty room was
unpleasantly hot and filled with the smell of resinous
pine boards; there was a drawl of voices and an occasional
patter of footsteps outside the door; and a big book,
which seemed to have no claim on her attention, lay
open on the table in front of the girl.

She was listening to Edgar with a smile in her eyes,
and looking, so he thought, remarkably attractive
in her light summer dress which left her pretty, round
arms uncovered to the elbow and displayed the polished
whiteness of her neck. He was expressing his
approval of the current fashions, which he said were
rational and particularly becoming to people with
skins like ivory. Indeed, he was so engrossed
in his subject that he did not hear footsteps approaching
until his companion flashed a warning glance at him;
and he swung round with some annoyance as the door
opened.

Page 154

“I guessed I would find you here,” said
the station-agent, looking in with an indulgent smile.

“You’re a thoughtful man,” retorted
Edgar. “You may as well tell me what you
want.”

“I’ve a wire from Flett, sent at Hatfield,
down the line.”

“What can he be doing there?” Edgar exclaimed;
and Miss Taunton showed her interest.

“He was coming through on the train. Wanted
Mr. Lansing to meet him at the station, if he was
in town. Hadn’t you better go along?”

“I suppose so,” said Edgar resignedly,
glancing at his watch. “It looks as if
your men had taken their time. Flett should be
here in about a quarter of an hour now.”

“Operator had train orders to get through; we
have two freights side-tracked,” the agent explained.
“Don’t be late; she’s coming along
on time.”

He hurried out, and a few minutes later Edgar crossed
the street and strolled along the low wooden platform,
upon which a smart constable was waiting. A
long trail of smoke, drawing rapidly nearer, streaked
the gray and ochre of the level plain, and presently
the big engine and dusty cars rolled into the station
amid the hoarse tolling of the bell. As they
ran slowly past him, Edgar saw a police trooper leaning
out from a vestibule, and when the train stopped the
constable on the platform hurried toward the car.
A hum of excited voices broke out and Edgar had some
difficulty in pushing through the growing crowd to
reach the steps. A constable, who had hard work
to keep the others back, let him pass, and he found
Flett standing on the platform above, looking rather
jaded, with a pistol loose in his holster.

“No,” answered Edgar; “he hasn’t
come into town. But what’s the cause of
this commotion? Have you got your men?”

“Three of them,” said Flett, with a look
of pride. “I expect we’ll get the
fourth. But come in a minute, out of the noise.”

The car was besieged. Curious men were clambering
up the side of it, trying to peer in through the windows;
others disputed angrily with the trooper who drove
them off the steps. Eager questions were shouted
and scraps of random information given, and groups
of people were excitedly running across the street
to the station. It was, however, a little quieter
in the vestibule when Flett had banged the door.
He next opened the inner door that led to the smoking
compartment of the Colonist car. In spite of
its roominess, it was almost insufferably hot and
very dirty; the sunlight struck in through the windows;
sand and fine cinders lay thick upon the floor.
A pile of old blue blankets lay, neatly folded, on
one of the wooden seats, and on those adjoining sat
three men. Two wore brown duck overalls, gray
shirts, and big soft hats; one was dressed in threadbare
cloth; but there was nothing that particularly suggested
the criminal in any of their sunburned faces.
They looked hot and weary with the journey, and though
their expression was perhaps a little hard, they looked
like harvest hands traveling in search of work.
One, who was quietly smoking, took his pipe from his
mouth and spoke to Flett.

Page 155

“Can’t you get us some ice?” he
asked. “The water in the tank isn’t
fit to drink.”

“They haven’t any here. You’ll
have to wait until we get to the junction,”
Flett told him, and drew Edgar back into the vestibule.

“We’re taking them right along to Regina,”
he explained. “I’m sorry I couldn’t
see Mr. Lansing, but I’ll ride over as soon as
I’m sent back. If he’s likely to
be away, he’d better send word to the station.”

“I don’t expect he’ll leave the
farm during the next few weeks,” said Edgar.

Then one of the constables looked in.

“Conductor says he can’t hold up the train.”

“I’ll be off,” said Edgar, with
a smile at Flett. “This should mean promotion;
it’s a fine piece of work.”

He jumped down as the train pulled out and hurried
back to the store where Miss Taunton was eagerly awaiting
news. Soon afterward he left; and as he rode
up to the homestead day was breaking, but he found
George already at work in the stable.

“It’s lucky we don’t need your horse.
If you’re going to keep up this kind of thing,
you had better buy an automobile,” he remarked.

Edgar laughed.

“I don’t feel remarkably fresh, but I’ll
hold out until to-night. There’s the fallowing
to be got on with; I suppose nothing must interfere
with that. But aren’t you up a little earlier
than usual?”

“I want to haul in the posts for the new fence.
Grierson has his hands full, and now that there are
four of us, Jake spends so much time in cooking.”

“A reckless waste of precious minutes!”
Edgar exclaimed ironically. “If one could
only get over these troublesome bodily needs, you could
add hours of work to every week and make Sylvia Marston
rich. By the way, Jake’s cooking is getting
awful.”

He put up his horse and busied himself with several
tasks before he went in to breakfast. When it
was finished, and the others went out, he detained
George.

“What did you think of that meal?” he
asked.

“Well,” said George, “it might have
been better.”

Edgar laughed scornfully.

“It would take some time to tell you my opinion,
but I may as well point out that you’re paying
a big bill for stores to Taunton, though we never
get anything fit to eat. Helen and I were talking
over your account, and she wondered what we did with
the things, besides giving me an idea. It’s
this—­why don’t you tell Grierson to
bring out his wife?”

“I never thought of it. She might not
come; and she may not cook much better than Jake.”

“She certainly couldn’t cook worse!
I expect she would save her wages, and she would
set a hired man free. Jake can drive a team.”

“It’s a good idea,” George agreed.
“Send Grierson in.”

The man came a few minutes later.

“We get on pretty well; I suppose you are willing
to stay with me?” George said to him.

Page 156

Grierson hesitated and looked disturbed.

“The fact is, I’d be very sorry to leave;
but I’m afraid I’ll have to by and by.
You see, I’ve got to find a place I can take
my wife to.”

“Can she cook?”

“Yes,” said Grierson, indicating the remnants
on the table with contempt. “She would
do better than this with her eyes shut! Then,”
he continued eagerly, “she can wash and mend
clothes. I’ve noticed that you and Mr.
West throw half your things away long before you need
to.”

“That’s true,” Edgar admitted.
“It’s the custom of the country; time’s
too valuable to spend in mending anything, though I’ve
noticed that one or two of the people who tell you
about the value of time get through a good deal of
it lounging round the Sachem. Anyway, amateur
laundering’s an abomination, and I’m most
successful in washing the buttons and wrist-bands
off.” He turned to his companion.
“George, you’ll have to send for Mrs.
Grierson.”

The matter was promptly arranged, and when Grierson
went out with a look of keen satisfaction, Edgar laughed.

“I feel like pointing out how far an idea can
go. Helen only thought of making me a little
more comfortable, and you see the result of it—­Grierson
and his wife united, things put into shape here, four
people content! Of course, one could cite a more
striking example; I mean when Sylvia Marston thought
you had better go out and look after her farm.
There’s no need to mention the far-reaching
consequences that opinion had.”

“I volunteered to go out,” George corrected
him.

“Well,” said Edgar, “I quite believe
you did so. But you’re no doubt pining
to get at the fence.”

They went off to work, but Edgar, driving the gang-plow
through the stubble under a scorching sun, thought
that Sylvia’s idea might bear more fruit than
she had calculated on, and that it would be bitter
to her. His mind, however, was chiefly occupied
with a more attractive person, and once when he turned
the heavy horses at the end of the furrows he said
softly, “May I deserve her!” and looked
up with a tense expression in his hot face, as if
making some firm resolve, which was a procedure that
would have astonished even those who knew him well.

A week passed, each day growing brighter and hotter,
until the glare flung back by sandy soil and whitening
grass became painful, and George and his assistants
discarded most of their clothing when they went about
their tasks. The oats began to show a silvery
gleam as they swayed in the strong light; the wheat
was changing color, and there were warm coppery gleams
among the heavy ears; horses and cattle sought the
poplars’ shade. Then one evening when the
Grants had driven over, Flett arrived at the homestead,
and, sitting on the stoop as the air grew cooler,
related his adventures.

“I guess my chiefs wouldn’t be pleased
to hear me; we’re not encouraged to talk, but
there’s a reason for it, as you’ll see
when I’m through,” he said, and plunged
abruptly into his narrative.

Page 157

It proved to be a moving tale of weary rides in scorching
heat and in the dusk of night, of rebuffs and daunting
failures. Flett, as he admitted, had several
times been cleverly misled and had done some unwise
things, but he had never lost his patience nor relaxed
his efforts. Slowly and doggedly, picking up
scraps of information where he could, he had trailed
his men to the frontier, where his real troubles had
begun. Once that he crossed it, he had no authority,
and the American sheriffs and deputies were not invariably
sympathetic. Some, he concluded, were unduly
influenced by local opinion, which was not in favor
of interfering with people who confined their depredations
to Canadian horses. Others, who acknowledged
past favors from Regina, foresaw troublesome complications
before he could be allowed to deport the offenders;
but some, with a strong sense of duty, offered willing
help, and that was how he had been able to make the
arrests on Canadian soil.

“Now,” he concluded, “we tracked
these men from point to point and I’ve evidence
to prove most of their moves, but they never had the
four horses in a bunch until they made Montana, which
is a point against us. We can show they were
working as a gang, that they were altogether with
the horses on American soil, but as we haven’t
corralled the only man Mr. Grant could swear to, there’s
only one way of proving how they got them. You
see where all this leads?”

“It looks as if you depended on my evidence
for a conviction,” said George.

Flett nodded.

“You saw Mr. Grant attacked and the horses run
off. You can identify one man, and we’ll
connect him with the rest.”

He took out a paper and handed it to George.

“It’s my duty to serve you with this;
and now that it’s done, I’ll warn you
to watch out until after the trial. If we can
convict these fellows, we smash the crowd, but we’d
be helpless without you.”

George opened the document and found it a formal summons
to attend the court at Regina on a date specified.
Then he produced another paper and gave it to Flett
with a smile.

“The opposition seem to recognize my importance,
and they move more quickly than the police.”

The trooper took the letter, which was typed and bore
no date or name of place.

“‘Keep off this trial and you’ll
have no more trouble,’” he read aloud.
“’Back up the police and you’ll be
sorry. If you mean to drop them, drive over
to the Butte, Thursday, and get supper at the Queen’s.’”

“Yesterday was Thursday, and I didn’t
go,” George said after a moment’s silence.

The quiet intimation was not a surprise to any of
them, and Flett nodded as he examined the letter.

“Not much of a clue,” he remarked.
“Toronto paper that’s sold at every store;
mailed two stations down the line. Nobody would
have met you at the Queen’s, but most anybody
in town would know if you had been there. Anyway,
I’ll take this along.” He rose.
“I can’t stop, but I want to say we’re
not afraid of your backing down.”

Page 158

He rode off in a few more minutes and after a while
the Grants took their leave, but Flora walked down
the trail with George while the team was being harnessed.

“You’ll be careful, won’t you?”
she said. “These men are dangerous; they
know yours is the most important evidence. I
shall be anxious until the trial.”

There was something in her eyes and voice that sent
a curious thrill through George.

Then Flora got into the vehicle; and during the next
week or two George took precautions. Indeed,
he now and then felt a little uncomfortable when he
had occasion to pass a shadowy bluff. He carried
a pistol when he went around the outbuildings at night,
and fell into a habit of stopping to listen, ready
to strike or shoot, each time he opened the door of
one in the dark.

For all that, nothing occurred to excite suspicion,
and after a while he felt inclined to smile at his
nervousness. At length, one day when the trial
was close at hand, and Edgar had gone to the Butte,
the mail-carrier brought him a note from Grant.

It consisted of a couple of lines asking him to come
over during the evening, and as supper had been finished
two hours before, George realized that there was not
much time to spare. Laying down the note, he
walked to the door and called his Canadian hired man.

“Put the saddle on the brown horse, Jake; I’m
going to Grant’s.”

The man did as he was bidden, and when George was
about to mount handed him a repeating rifle.

“Better take this along; cylinder’s full,”
he said. “It will be dark before you get
there.”

George hesitated. The rifle was heavy, but it
was a more reliable weapon than a pistol, and he rode
off with it. The sun had dipped when he started,
the air was rapidly cooling, and after spending the
day sinking holes for fence posts in the scorching
sun, he found the swift motion and the little breeze
that fanned his face pleasant. To the northwest,
a flush of vivid crimson glowed along the horizon,
but the sweep of grass was growing dim and a bluff
he reached at length stood out, a sharp-cut, dusky
mass, against the fading light. He pulled up
his horse on its outskirts. A narrow trail led
through the wood, its entrance marked by a dark gap
among the shadowy trees, and it somehow looked forbidding.
The bluff, however, stretched across his path; it
was getting late, and George was a little impatient
of the caution he had been forced to exercise.
Laying his rifle ready across the saddle, he sent
his horse forward.

Page 159

It was quite dark in the bluff, though here and there
he could see a glimmer of faint red and orange between
the trees, and the stillness had a slightly disturbing
effect on him. Not a leaf moved, the beat of
his horse’s hoofs rang sharply down the narrow
trail above which the thin birch branches met.
He wanted to get out into the open, where he could
see about, as soon as possible. There was, however,
no ostensible cause for uneasiness and he rode on
quietly, until he heard a soft rustling among the
slender trunks. Pulling up the horse, he called
out, and, as he half expected, got no answer.
Then he cast a swift glance ahead. There was
a gleam of dim light not far away where the trail
led out of the bluff. Throwing the rifle to his
shoulder, George fired into the shadows.

The horse plunged violently and broke into a frightened
gallop. George heard a whistle and a sharper
rustling, and rode toward the light at a furious pace.
Then his horse suddenly stumbled and came down.
The rifle flew out of George’s hand, and he
was hurled against a tree. The next moment he
felt himself rudely seized, and what he thought was
a jacket was wrapped about his head. Shaken
by his fall, he could make no effective resistance,
and he was dragged a few yards through the bush and
flung into a wagon. He tried to pull the jacket
from his face, and failed; somebody brutally beat
him down against the side of the vehicle when he struggled
to get up. He heard a whip crack, the wagon
swayed and jolted, and he knew the team was starting
at a gallop.

CHAPTER XXIX

FLORA’S ENLIGHTENMENT

It was nearly midnight when Edgar returned from the
settlement and saw, to his surprise, lights still
burning in the homestead. Entering the living-room,
he found Grierson sitting there with Jake, and it struck
him that they looked uneasy.

“What’s keeping you up?” he asked.

“I thought I’d wait for the boss,”
said the Canadian. “He went over to Grant’s
after supper, and he’s not come back.”

“That’s curious. He said nothing
about going.”

“A note came by the mail. It’s lying
yonder.”

Edgar picked it up and brought it near the lamp.
The paper was good and printed with Grant’s
postal address, which was lengthy.

“I figured I’d go and meet him,”
Jake resumed, “Took the shot-gun and rode through
the bluff. Didn’t see anything of him,
and it struck me Grant might have kept him all night,
as it was getting late. He’s stayed there
before.”

Edgar examined the note, for he was far from satisfied.
George had only twice spent a night at Grant’s,
once when he was driving cattle, and again when it
would have been risky to face the weather. The
paper was undoubtedly Grant’s, but Edgar could
not identify the farmer’s hand; the notes that
had come over had been written by Flora. Then
he remembered that George had bought some implements
from Grant, and had filed the rancher’s receipt.
Edgar hurriedly found it and compared it with the
letter. Then his face grew troubled, for the
writing was not the same.

Page 160

“I’m afraid Mr. Lansing never got to Grant’s,”
he said. “I’ll ride over at once.”

“Then I’m coming,” Jake said shortly.
“I’ll bring the gun along.”

Grierson lifted a clenched brown hand.

“So am I! If Mr. Lansing’s hurt,
somebody’s got to pay!”

Edgar was stirred by something in their looks and
voices; George had gained a hold on these men’s
loyalty which the regular payment of wages could never
have given him. He merely signified assent, and,
running out, sprang into the saddle. The others
had evidently had their horses ready, for he heard
them riding after him in a minute or two, though he
was galloping recklessly through the bluff when they
came up. The homestead was dark when they reached
it, and they shouted once or twice before Grant came
down.

“Is George here?” Edgar asked.

“No,” said Grant, “we didn’t
expect him.”

“Then get on your clothes quick! There’s
work on hand!”

Grant brought him in and struck a light, then hurriedly
left the room; and Flora came with him, fully dressed,
when he reappeared. Edgar supposed she had heard
his sharp inquiry at the door, and he noticed that
her expression was strained. He threw the note
on the table.

“After what you said, I needn’t ask if
you wrote that.”

“I didn’t,” Grant told him.
“It’s not like my hand. I suppose
Lansing started when he got it and has not come back?”

“You have guessed right. Where are they
likely to have waylaid him, and where will they probably
take him?”

“The bluff, sure. They might head north
for empty country, or south for the frontier.”

“The frontier,” Flora broke in.

“It’s what I think,” said Edgar.
“Shall I send a man for Flett, or will you?”

“That’s fixed, anyway,” said a voice
outside the open door. “We’re not
going.”

It was obvious that the hired men had followed them
as far as the passage, for Grierson, entering the
room, explained:

“He means we’ve made up our minds to look
for Mr. Lansing.”

Grant nodded in assent.

“Then my man goes. Turn out the boys,
Jake; you know the place. I want three horses
saddled, quick.”

“Four,” said Flora, firmly. “I’m
coming.”

Grant did not try to dissuade her.

“Write to Flett,” he said.

He went out hastily in search of blankets and provisions,
and when he returned, his hired men had gathered about
the door and the note was finished. He threw
it to one of them.

“Ride with that as hard as you can,” he
said, and called another, “You’ll come
with us.”

“We’re a strong party already,”
Edgar broke in. “You’re leaving the
place poorly guarded, and the rustlers may have counted
on something of the kind. Suppose they finish
their work by driving off every beast that’s
left as soon as we have gone.”

“I’ve got to take my chances; we’ll
want the boys to make a thorough search.”

Page 161

Grant swung round toward the remaining men.

“You two will watch out behind the woodstack
or in the granary. No stranger’s to come
near house or stable.”

“The woodpile,” said Flora, with a hard
white face and an ominous sparkle in her eyes.
“You would command the outbuildings there.
If anybody tries to creep up at night, call once,
and then shoot to kill.”

Edgar saw that she meant her instructions to be carried
out; but he forced a smile.

“And this is the Canadian wheat-belt, which
I was told was so peaceful and orderly!”

“It looks as if you had been misinformed,”
Flora rejoined with a cold collectedness which he
thought of as dangerous. “One, however,
now and then hears of violent crime in London.”

They were mounted in a few minutes, and after a hard
ride the party broke up at dawn, dispersing so that
each member of it could make independent search and
inquiries at the scattered homesteads. Meeting
places and means of communication were arranged; but
Flora and her father rode together, pushing on steadily
southward over the vast gray plain. Little was
said except when they called at some outlying farm,
but Grant now and then glanced at the girl’s
set face with keenly scrutinizing eyes. In the
middle of the scorching afternoon he suggested that
she should await his return at a homestead in the
distance, but was not surprised when she uncompromisingly
refused. They spent the night at a small ranch,
borrowed fresh horses in the morning, and set out
again; but they found no trace of the fugitives during
the day, and it was evening when Edgar and Grierson
joined them, as arranged, at a lonely farm.
The two men rode in wearily on jaded horses, and Flora,
who was the first to notice their approach, went out
to meet them.

“Nothing?” she said, when she saw their
dejected faces.

“Nothing,” Edgar listlessly answered.
“If the people we have seen aren’t in
league with the rustlers—­and I don’t
think that’s probable—­the fellows
must have gone a different way.”

“They’ve gone south!” Flora insisted.
“We may be a little too far to the east of
their track.”

“Then, we must try a different line of country
tomorrow.”

The farmer’s wife had promised to find Flora
quarters, the men were offered accommodation in a
barn, and when the air cooled sharply in the evening,
Edgar walked out on to the prairie with the girl.
She had kept near him since his arrival, but he was
inclined to believe this was rather on account of
his association with George than because she found
any charm in his society. By and by, they sat
down on a low rise from which they could see the sweep
of grass run on, changing to shades of blue and purple,
toward the smoky red glare of sunset on its western
rim. To the south, it was all dim and steeped
in dull neutral tones, conveying an idea of vast distance.

Flora shivered, drawing her thin linen jacket together
while she buttoned it, and Edgar noticed something
beneath it that broke the outline of her waist.

Page 162

“What’s that at your belt?” he asked.

“A magazine pistol,” she answered with
a rather harsh laugh, producing the beautifully made
weapon,

“It’s a pretty thing. I wonder whether
you can use it?”

“Will you stand up at about twenty paces and
hold out your hat?”

“Certainly not!” said Edgar firmly.
“I wouldn’t mind putting it on a stick,
only that the shot would bring the others out.
But I’ve no doubt you can handle a pistol;
you’re a curious people.”

He thought the last remark was justified. Here
was a girl, as refined and highly trained in many
ways as any he had met, and yet who owned a dangerous
weapon and could use it effectively. Then there
was her father, an industrious, peaceable farmer,
whose attention was, as a rule, strictly confined
to the amassing of money, but who was nevertheless
capable of riding or shooting down the outlaws who
molested him or his friends. What made the thing
more striking was that neither of them had been used
to alarms; they had dwelt in calm security until the
past twelve months. Edgar, however, remembered
that they sprang from a stock that had struggled sternly
for existence with forest and flood and frost; no
doubt, in time of stress, the strong primitive strain
came uppermost. Their nature had not been altogether
softened by civilization. The thought flung a
useful light upon Flora’s character.

“If the trial’s a lengthy one and these
fellows hold him up until it’s over, it will
be a serious thing for George,” he resumed, by
way of implying that this was the worst that could
befall his comrade. “The grain’s
ripening fast, and he hasn’t made his arrangements
for harvest yet. Men seem pretty scarce around
here, just now.”

“It’s a good crop; I’m glad of that,”
said Flora, willing to avoid the graver side of the
topic. “Mr. Lansing was anxious about it,
but this harvest should set him on his feet.
I suppose he hasn’t paid off the full price
of the farm.”

“As a matter of fact, he hasn’t paid anything
at all.”

“Then has he only rented the place?”

There was surprise and strong interest in the girl’s
expression and Edgar saw that he had made a telling
admission. However, he did not regret it.

“No,” he said; “that’s not
the case, either. The farm is still Mrs. Marston’s.”

“Ah! There’s something I don’t
understand.”

Edgar was sorry for her, and he felt that she was
entitled to an explanation. Indeed, since George
was strangely unobservant, he thought it should have
been made earlier; but the matter had appeared too
delicate for him to meddle with. Now, however,
when the girl’s nature was strongly stirred,
there was a risk that, supposing his comrade was discovered
wounded or was rescued in some dramatic way, she might
be driven to a betrayal of her feelings that would
seriously embarrass George and afterward cause her
distress.

Page 163

“George,” he explained, “is merely
carrying on the farm as Mrs. Marston’s trustee.”

“But that hardly accounts for his keen eagerness
to make his farming profitable. It strikes one
as springing from something stronger than his duty
as trustee.”

Edgar nodded.

“Well, you see, he is in love with her!”

Flora sat quite still for a moment or two, and then
laughed—­a little bitter laugh; she was
overstrained and could not repress it. A flood
of hot color surged into her face, but in another moment
she had recovered some degree of composure.

“So that is why he came out?” she said.

“Yes; he was in love with her before she married
Marston. At least, that’s his impression.”

“His impression?” echoed Flora, keenly
anxious to cover any signs of the shock she had received
and to learn all that could be told. “Do
you mean that Mr. Lansing doesn’t know whether
he is in love with her or not?”

“No, not exactly!” Edgar felt that he
was on dangerous ground. “I’m afraid
I can’t quite explain what I really do mean.
George, of course, is convinced about the thing;
but I’ve a suspicion that he may be mistaken;
though he’d be very indignant if he heard me
say so.”

He paused, doubtful whether he was handling the matter
prudently, but he felt that something must be done
to relieve the strain, and continued:

“George has the faculty of respectful admiration
highly developed, but he doesn’t use it with
much judgment; in fact, he’s a rather reckless
idealist. There are excuses for him; he was never
much thrown into women’s society.”

“You think that explains it?” Flora forced
a smile. “But go on.”

“My idea is that George has been led by admiration
and pity, and not by love at all. I don’t
think he knows the difference; he’s not much
of a psychologist. Then, you see, he’s
thorough, and having got an idea into his mind, it
possesses him and drives him to action. He doesn’t
stop to analyze his feelings.”

“So he came out to look after Mrs. Marston’s
property because he felt sorry for her, and believed
her worthy of respect? What is your opinion
of her?”

“After all, that’s a matter which chiefly
concerns Mr. Lansing, and I dare say the woman he
believes in will be capable of dealing with the situation.
Let’s talk of something else.”

They turned back toward the farm, but Edgar found
it difficult to start a fresh topic. All the
workings of his mind centered upon George, and he
suspected that his companion’s thoughts had a
similar tendency. It was getting dark when they
rejoined the rest of the party, and the next morning
Flett and another constable rode in. They had
discovered nothing, but as they were ready to take
up the trail, Grant left the task to them and turned
back with his men.

Page 164

Flora long remembered the dreary two day’s ride,
for although she had borne it with courage, Edgar’s
news had caused her a painful shock. She had,
from the beginning, been strongly drawn to George,
and when he had been carried off the knowledge that
she loved him had been brought home to her.
Now, looking back with rudely opened eyes, there was
little comfort in recognizing that he had made no demands
on her affection. Bitter as she was, she could
not blame him; she had been madly foolish and must
suffer for it. She called her pride to the rescue,
but it failed her. The torturing anxiety about
the man’s fate remained, and with it a humiliating
regret, which was not altogether selfish, that it
was Sylvia Marston he had chosen. Sylvia, who
was clever, had, of course, tricked him; but this
was no consolation. It was, however, needful
to hide her feelings from her father and assume an
interest in his remarks, though, when he spoke, it
was always of Lansing and what had probably befallen
him.

The prairie was dazzlingly bright, the trail they
followed was thick with fine black dust, and most
of the day the heat was trying; the girl felt utterly
jaded and very heavy of heart, but when it appeared
desirable she forced herself to talk. Her father
must never suspect her folly, though she wondered
uneasily how far she might have betrayed it to West.
Reaching the homestead at length, she resumed her
duties, and anxiously waited for news of George.
Once that she heard he was safe, it would, she thought,
be easier to drive him out of her mind forever.

As it happened, George had received only a few bruises
in the bluff, and, after realizing that there was
no chance of escape for the present, he lay still
in the bottom of the wagon. He blamed himself
for riding so readily into the trap, since it was obvious
that his assailants had known he was going to visit
Grant, and had stretched a strand of fence wire or
something of the kind across the trail. They
would have removed it afterward and there would be
nothing left to show what had befallen him.
This, however was a matter of minor consequence and
he endeavored to determine which way his captors were
driving. Judging the nature of the trail by the
jolting, he decided that they meant to leave the wood
where he entered it, which suggested that they were
going south, and this was what he had anticipated.
Though he was sore from the effect of his fall and
the rough handling which had followed it, he did not
think he would suffer any further violence, so long
as he made no attempt to get away. The men, no
doubt, only intended to prevent his giving evidence,
by keeping him a prisoner until after the trial.

When morning came, the wagon was still moving at a
good pace, though the roughness of the motion indicated
that it was not following a trail. This was
all George could discover, because one of the men tied
his arms and legs before removing the jacket which
had muffled his head.

Page 165

“I guess you can’t get up, but it wouldn’t
be wise to try,” the fellow pointed out significantly.

George took the hint. He meant to escape and
attend the court, but he had no wish to ruin any chance
of his doing so by making a premature attempt.
His captors meant to prevent his seeing which way
they were going, but he could make out that the sky
was brightest on the left side of the wagon, which
indicated that they were heading south. They
stopped at noon in a thick bluff, from which, when
he was released and allowed to get down, he could
see nothing of the prairie. Only one man remained
to watch him; but as he was armed, and George could
hear the others not far away, he decided that his
escape must be postponed.

During the afternoon, they went on again, George occupying
his former position in the bottom of the wagon, where
it was unpleasantly hot; but the strongest glare was
now on his right side, which showed him that they
were still holding south. Their destination was
evidently the American frontier. In the evening
they camped near a thicket of low scrub, and after
supper George was permitted to wander about and stretch
his aching limbs. It was rolling country, broken
by low rises, and he could not see more than a mile
or two. There was nothing that served as a,
landmark, and as soon as he began to stroll away from
the camp he was sharply recalled. In the end,
he sat down to smoke, and did not move until he was
told to get into the wagon, where a blanket was thrown
him. So far, he had been permitted to see only
one of his captors near at hand.

The next morning they set out again. George
thought that fresh horses had been obtained in the
night, because they drove at a rapid pace most of
the day; and he was tired and sore with the jolting
when they camped in another bluff at sunset.
Two more days were spent in much the same way; and
then late at night they stopped at a little building
standing in the midst of an unbroken plain, and George
was released and told to get out. One of the
men lighted a lantern and led him into an empty stable,
built of thick sods. It looked as if it had not
been occupied for a long time, but part of it had
been roughly boarded off, as if for a harness room
or store.

“You have got your blanket,” said his
companion. “Put it down where you like.
There’s only one door to this place, and you
can’t get at it without passing me. I
got a sleep in the wagon and don’t want any more
to-night.”

George heard the vehicle jolt away, and sat down to
smoke while the beat of hoofs gradually sank into
the silence of the plain. Then he wrapped his
blanket about him and went to sleep on the earthen
floor.

CHAPTER XXX

THE ESCAPE

Page 166

George got up the next morning feeling cramped and
sore after his journey, and carefully looked about.
The building had solid walls of sod; such rude stalls
as it had been fitted with had been removed, perhaps
for the sake of the lumber. He could not reach
the door without alarming his jailer, who had taken
up his quarters behind the board partition; and there
was only one small window, placed high up and intended
mainly for ventilation. The window was very dusty,
but it opened and George could see out by standing
up, though the aperture was not large enough to squeeze
through.

Outside stood some timbers which had once formed part
of a shack, and a few strands of fence wire, trailing
from tottering posts, ran into the grass. The
place appeared to have been a farm, whose owner had,
no doubt, abandoned it after finding the soil too
light, or after losing a crop by frost; but George
was more curious to discover if there were any other
homesteads in the vicinity. His view was restricted,
but there was no sign of life on the quarter-circle
it commanded. A flat, grassy waste, broken only
by a few clumps of brush, ran back to the horizon,
and by the cold blue of the sky and the drift of a
few light clouds floating before the prevalent westerly
wind, he knew he was looking north. This was
the way he must take if he could escape, but there
was no house in which he could seek refuge, and scarcely
any cover. It was clear that he must obtain
a good start before he was missed. He had an
idea that he would escape, though he admitted that
it was more optimistic than rational.

Then he turned with a start, to see his jailer standing
beside him, grinning. The man had a hard, determined
face.

“Guess you can’t get out that way; and
it wouldn’t be much use, anyhow,” he drawled.
“The country’s pretty open; it would take
you a mighty long while to get out of sight.”

“That’s how it struck me,” George
confessed with an air of good-humored resignation.
“Do you mean to keep me here any time?”

“Until the trial,” the other answered,
standing a little away from him with his hand thrust
suggestively into a pocket. “We’ll
be glad to get rid of you when it’s finished,
but you certainly can’t get away before we let
you go.”

George cast a glance of keen but unobtrusive scrutiny
at the man. They were, he thought, about equal
in physical strength; the other’s superiority
consisted in his being armed, and George had no doubt
that he was proficient with his weapons. He
had seen a rifle carried into the building, the man’s
hand was now resting on a pistol, and there was a
light ax outside. It looked as if an attempt
to escape would be attended with a serious risk, and
George realized that he must wait until chance or
some slackening of vigilance on his custodians’
part equalized matters.

Page 167

He was given breakfast, and afterward told that he
could go out and split some wood, which he was glad
to do. There was a pile of branches and a few
rotten boards that had once formed part of the shack,
and he set to work to break them up, while the rustler
sat and smoked in the doorway. The man ran no
risk in doing so; there was not a bush within a quarter
of a mile, and George knew that a bullet would speedily
cut short his flight. He could see nothing that
promised a secure hiding place all the way to the
skyline, and he thought that the plain ran on beyond
it, as little broken. When he had cut some wood,
he turned back toward the door, and the man regarded
him with a meaning smile.

“Come in, if you want; but leave the ax right
there,” he said.

He moved back a few paces, out of reach of a sudden
spring, as George entered, and the latter realized
that he did not mean to be taken by surprise.
During the afternoon, another man arrived on horseback
with some provisions and remained until George went
to sleep. The following morning, the stranger
had disappeared, but he came again once or twice,
and this was all that broke the monotony of the next
few days. George, however, was beginning to
feel the strain; his nerves were getting raw, the
constant watchfulness was wearing him. The trial
would now be beginning, and it was time the binders
were driven into his grain; the oats would be ripe,
and his neighbors would pick up all the Ontario hands
who reached the settlement. Another day passed,
and he was feeling desperate when the relief watcher
arrived in the afternoon. Listening with strained
attention, he heard the men talking outside.
Only a few words reached him, but one was “adjourned,”
and it filled him with fresh determination.
If he could escape, it might not be too late.

It was an oppressive afternoon; the fresh northwest
breeze had dropped, the sky was clouded, the air hot
and heavy. Both men remained about the building,
but George sat quietly on the earth floor, smoking
and waiting for night. A few large drops of
rain fell, splashing upon roof and grass while he
ate his supper, but it stopped, and the evening was
marked by a deep stillness. He felt listless
and disinclined to move; his guards, to judge by their
voices, for they were playing cards outside, were
languidly irritable.

Dusk came and a thick obscurity, unlike the usual
clearness of the summer nights, shut in the lonely
building. It was intensely dark in the stable;
George could not see the relief man’s horse,
though he could now and then hear it move. Voices
rose at intervals from beyond the partition, but they
ceased at last and only an occasional crackle of the
dry grass that served for seats and bedding told that
one at least of the rustlers was keeping watch.
George felt his limbs quiver while he waited, and
he was conscious of an unpleasant tension on his nerves.
There was thunder brewing, and he thought the storm
might offer him an opportunity for getting out.

Page 168

At length it struck him that the silence was unusually
deep. Rising to his feet he moved about.
There was no challenge; and by way of further experiment,
he kicked his tin plate so that it rattled. Still
nobody called to him, though the horse made a little
noise in moving. George sat down and took off
his boots while his heart throbbed painfully.
It looked as if his guards had gone to sleep.
He moved a few yards, stopped to listen, and went
on for several paces more. There was no sound
yet beyond the partition, and he crept softly past
the horse; he longed to lead it out, but decided that
the risk would be too great.

Then he stood in the gap between the wall and the
partition, straining eyes and ears, and wondering
where the rifle lay. He could see nothing, however;
and, creeping on cautiously, with tingling nerves and
an intolerable feeling of suspense, he drew level with
the doorway. It was hard to refrain from leaping
out, but this might make some noise. Crossing
the threshold with careful movements, he made for the
spot where he had cut the wood. He struck something
that rattled, but he found the ax and the feel of
it sent a thrill through him. It was light enough
to be carried easily; and he did not mean to be recaptured.

For some minutes he moved straight on, hurting his
feet on the stronger grass stalks; and then, sitting
down, he hastily put on his boots. After that
he broke into a steady run, which he meant to keep
up as long as possible. He was now anxious that
the threatened storm should not break, because if
the rustlers had gone to sleep, the longer they remained
so the better. He failed to understand how he
had escaped; perhaps his guards had been lulled into
false security by his tranquil demeanor; perhaps they
had trusted to each other; or one, rendered listless
by the tension in the air, had relaxed his watchfulness
for a few moments. This, however, did not matter.
George was free; and he only wished that he had some
idea as to where he was heading. He wanted to
place a long distance between him and the stable by
morning.

Dripping with perspiration, breathing hard, he kept
up a steady pace for, so he thought, an hour, after
which he walked a mile or two, and then broke into
a run again. The grass was short; he struck no
brush, and the ax did not encumber him. He imagined
that dawn must be getting near when a dazzling flash
swept the prairie and there was a long reverberatory
rumbling overhead. He was almost blinded and
bewildered, doubly uncertain where he was going; and
then a great stream of white fire fell from the zenith.
The thunder that followed was deafening, and for
the next few minutes blaze succeeded blaze, and there
was a constant crashing and rumbling overhead.
After that came a rush of chilly wind and the air
was filled with falling water.

Page 169

A hot, steamy smell rose about him; but George, who
had been walking again, began to run. He must
use every exertion, for if he were right in concluding
that he had been detained on American soil, his pursuers
would follow him north, and when daylight came a mounted
man’s view would command a wide sweep of level
prairie. The storm passed away, muttering, into
the distance; the rain ceased, and the air was fresh
and cool until the sun sprang up. It was on his
right hand, he thought he had kept his line; but he
stopped to consider on the edge of a ravine.
The sides of the hollow were clothed with tall, wet
grass and brush; it would offer good cover, but he
could hardly avoid leaving a track if he followed
it, and his pursuers would search such spots.
It seemed wiser to push on across the plain.

Descending through the thinnest brush he could find,
he stopped for a drink from the creek at the bottom,
and then went on as fast as possible. He was
becoming conscious of a pain in his left side; one
foot felt sore; and as the sun got hotter a longing
to lie down a while grew steadily stronger.
Still, he could see nothing but short, gray grass
ahead; he must hold on; there might be bluffs or broken
country beyond the skyline.

At length a small square block cut against the dazzling
brightness and slowly grew into a lonely homestead.
After some consideration, George headed for it, and
toward noon reached a little, birch-log dwelling,
with a sod stable beside it. Both had an uncared-for
appearance, which suggested their owner’s poverty.
As George approached the door, a gaunt, hard-faced
man in dilapidated overalls came out and gazed at him
in surprise. George’s clothing, which had
been torn when he was seized in the bluff, had further
suffered during the deluge. He looked a weary,
ragged outcast.

“Can you give me something to eat and hire me
a horse?” he asked.

The farmer seemed suspicious.

“Guess I want my horses for the binder; I’m
harvesting oats.”

“I’ll pay you well for the time you lose,”
George broke out.

“How much?”

Thrusting his hand into his pocket, George found with
dismay that his wallet, which contained some bills,
was missing.

“Anything you ask in reason, but you’ll
have to take a check on a Brandon bank. Have
you got a pen and paper in the house?”

“How am I to know your check’s good?”
The farmer laughed ironically.

George was doubtful of the man, but he must take a
risk.

“My name’s Lansing, from the Marston homestead,
beyond Sage Butte. It’s a pretty big place;
any check I give you will be honored.”

The farmer looked at him with growing interest.

“Well,” he said, “you can’t
have my horse.”

It was evident from his manner that reasoning would
be useless.

“How does Sage Butte lie from here?” George
asked him.

“Can’t tell you; I’ve never been
in the place.”

Page 170

George realized that he had blundered, both in calling
at the homestead and in mentioning his name, which
had figured in the newspaper account of the attack
on Grant. The farmer, it seemed, had a good idea
of the situation, and if not in league with the rustlers,
was afraid of them. George was wasting time and
giving information that might put his pursuers on
his trail. In the meanwhile he noticed a face
at the window and a voice called to the man, who stepped
back into the house and appeared again with a big
slab of cold pie.

“Take this and light out,” he said.

Having eaten nothing since his supper, George was
glad of the food; but he walked on smartly for an
hour before he sat down in a clump of brush and made
a meal. Then he lighted his pipe and spent a
couple of hours in much needed rest. Haste was
highly desirable; he had no doubt that he was being
followed, but he could go no farther for a while.

It was very hot when he got up; he was sore all over,
and his foot was paining, but he set off at a run
and kept it up until he had crossed a rise two miles
away. The country was getting more broken, which
was in his favor, because the clumps of bush and the
small elevations would tend to hide him. He
went on until dusk, without finding any water; and
then lay down among some tall grass in the open.
There was a little bluff not far off, but if the
rustlers came that way, he thought they would search
it. It grew cold as darkness crept down; indeed
he imagined that the temperature had fallen to near
freezing-point, as it sometimes does on the plains
after a scorching day.

Part of the night he lay awake, shivering; but during
the rest he slept; and he rose at dawn, very cold
and wet with dew. His foot was very sore, and
he had a sharp pain in his side. For the first
hour, walking cost him an effort; but as he grew warmer
it became less difficult, and his foot felt easier.
Then, as he crossed a slight elevation, he saw a
faint gray smear on the far horizon and it sent a
thrill through him. Canadian locomotives burning
native coal pour out clouds of thick black smoke which
can be seen a long way in the clear air of the prairie.
George was thirty or forty feet, he thought, above
the general level of the plain, the light was strong,
and he imagined that it would take him most of the
day to reach the spot over which the smoke had floated.
He was, however, heading for the track, and he gathered
his courage.

He saw no more smoke for a long time—­the
increasing brightness seemed to diminish the clarity
of the air. Before noon the pain in his side
had become almost insupportable, and his head was swimming;
he felt worn out, scarcely able to keep on his feet,
but again a gray streak on the horizon put heart into
him. It did not appear to move for a while,
and he thought it must have been made by a freight-engine
working about a station. Then, as he came down
the gradual slope of a wide depression, a long bluff
on its opposite verge cut the skyline, a hazy smear
of neutral color. He determined to reach the
wood and lie down for a time in its shadow.

Page 171

It scarcely seemed to grow any nearer, and an hour
had passed before it assumed any regularity of outline.
When it had grown into shape, George stopped and
looked about. It was fiercely hot, the grass
was dazzlingly bright, there was no house or sign
of cultivation as far as his sight ranged; but on
glancing back he started as he saw three small mounted
figures on the plain. They had not been there
when he last turned around, and they were moving,
spread out about a mile apart. It was obvious
that the rustlers were on his trail. For another
moment he looked at the bluff, breathing hard, with
his lips tight set. If he could reach the wood
before he was overtaken, it would offer him cover
from a bullet, and if he could not evade his enemies,
he might make a stand with the ax among the thicker
trees. It was an irrational idea, as he half
recognized; but he had grown savage with fatigue, and
he had already suffered as much as he was capable
of bearing at the hands of the cattle thieves.
Now he meant to turn on them; but he would be at
their mercy in the open.

His weariness seemed to fall away from him to give
place to grim fury as he broke into a run, and he
did not look back for a while. When he did so,
the figures had grown larger; one could see that they
were moving swiftly; and the bluff was still far away.
George believed that he had been noticed and he strove
to quicken his pace. The beat of hoofs was in
his ears when he next looked around; the three horsemen
were converging, growing more distinct; and the bluff
was still a mile ahead. He was stumbling and
reeling, his hat fell off, and he dared not stop to
pick it up.

A mile was covered; he would not look back again,
though the thud of hoofs had swelled into a sharp
staccato drumming. With face fiercely set and
the perspiration dripping from him, he held on, scorched
and partly dazzled by the glare. The wood was
getting closer; he thought it was scarcely a quarter
of a mile off. His heart throbbed madly, the
pain in his side had grown excruciating; but somehow
he must keep going. His eyes smarted with the
moisture that ran into them, his lips and mouth were
salty; he was suffering torment; but he kept on his
feet.

At length, when the trees were close ahead, a faint
smudge of smoke appeared on the edge of them; there
was a report like a whipcrack, and he stopped in despair.
His last refuge was held against him. Then,
as he turned in savage desperation to meet the rustlers’
onslaught with the ax, he saw there were only two
horsemen, who pulled up suddenly, about sixty yards
away. The third was not visible, but his horse,
which had fallen, was struggling in the grass.
As the meaning of this dawned on George he broke
in a wild, breathless yell of exultation; there was
another crack behind him, and the two horsemen wheeled.
They were not too soon, for a mounted man in khaki
with something that flashed across his saddle was
riding hard from behind the bluff to cut them off.
Another appeared, going at a furious gallop, and George
stood watching while the four figures grew smaller
upon the prairie.

Page 172

Turning at a shout he saw Flett and Edgar walking
toward him, and he went with them to the fallen horse.
A man lay, gray in face, among the grass, held down
by the body of the animal which partly rested upon
him.

“Get me out,” he begged hoarsely.
“Leg’s broke.”

George felt incapable of helping. He sat down
while the other two extricated the man; then Flett
placed his carbine against the horse’s head,
and after the report it ceased its struggling.

“She came down on me sudden; couldn’t
get my foot clear in time,” the rustler explained.

“You had to be stopped. I sighted at a
hundred; a quick shot,” Flett remarked.
“Is there anything else the matter except your
leg?”

“I guess it’s enough,” said the
helpless man.

Flett turned to George.

“Walk into the bluff and you’ll strike
our camp. West must stay with me until we put
on some fixing that will hold this fellow’s leg
together.”

George did as he was bidden, and sat down again limply
when he reached an opening in the wood where a pile
of branches, with a kettle suspended over them, had
been laid ready for lighting. Presently the
others rejoined him.

“The fellow can’t be moved until we get
a wagon,” said Flett. “We’ve
been looking for you all over the country, but it was
quite a while before we got a hint that sent us down
this way. We had stopped in the bluff when we
saw a fellow running with three mounted men after him,
and we lay close, expecting to get the bunch.
It’s unfortunate they got too near you and
I had to shoot, but I guess the boys will bring them
back.”

Edgar looked at his comrade reproachfully.

“If you could only have sprinted a little and
kept ahead, we would either have outflanked them or
have had the finest imaginable ride with every chance
of running the fellows down. As things turned
out, I couldn’t go off with the troopers until
I found that you had got through unhurt.”

“I’m sorry,” George told him, with
a little dry laugh. “But I don’t
think I spared any effort during the last quarter of
a mile.”

Then he related his adventures, and answered a number
of questions.

“You’ll take my horse,” said Flett,
“and start for the railroad as soon as you feel
able. Get on to Regina by the first train; judging
by the last wire I got, you’ll still be in time.
West had better go with you to the station, and he
can send a wagon for the man who’s hurt.
Now I guess we’ll get you something to eat.”

“I shouldn’t mind,” said George.
“It’s twenty-four hours since my last
meal, and that one was remarkably small.”

He drank a canful of cold tea, and then went suddenly
to sleep while the others lighted the fire.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE REACTION

The trial at Regina proved sensational. Crimes
attended with violence were not unknown in the vicinity,
and cattle were now and then stolen in the neighboring
province of Alberta; but that such things as the prosecutor’s
tale revealed should happen aroused wide-spread astonishment
and virtuous indignation. Nevertheless, they
were proved, for Flett had procured a number of witnesses
and, what was more, had secured their attendance.

Page 173

In addition to this, other offenses were hinted at;
the doings of an organized gang of desperadoes and
their accomplices were detailed, and facts were brought
to light which made the withdrawal of the Sachem license
inevitable. The defense took strong exception
to this mode of procedure, pointing out that the court
was only concerned with a specified offense, and that
it was not permissible to drag in extraneous and largely
supposititious matter. During the sweltering
days the trial lasted, there were brisk encounters
between the lawyers, and several points the prosecution
sought to prove were ruled irrelevant. As a
climax, came George’s story, which caused a
sensation, though the close-packed assembly felt that
he scarcely did justice to his theme.

In concluding, the Crown prosecutor pointed out how
rapidly the outbreaks of turbulent lawlessness had
spread. They were all, he contended, connected
with and leading up to the last outrage, of which
the men before him were accused. It was obvious
that this unruliness must be sternly stamped out before
it spread farther, and if the court agreed with him
that the charge was fully proved, he must press for
a drastic and deterrent penalty.

The odds were heavily against the defense from the
beginning. The credibility of Flett’s
witnesses could not be assailed, and cross-examination
only threw a more favorable light upon their character.
Inside the court, and out of it as the newspapers
circulated, Grant stood revealed as a fearless citizen,
with a stern sense of his duty to the community; George,
somewhat to his annoyance, as a more romantic personage
of the same description, and Hardie, who had been
brought in to prove certain points against which the
defense protested, as one who had fought and suffered
in a righteous cause.

In the end, the three prisoners were convicted, and
when the court broke up the police applied for several
fresh warrants, which were issued.

As George was walking toward his hotel, he met Flett,
to whom he had not spoken since they separated in
the bluff.

“I was waiting for you,” said the constable.
“I’m sorry we’ll have to call you
up again as soon as the rustler’s leg is better.
He’s in the guard-room, and the boys got one
of the other fellows; but we can talk about it on
the train. I’m going back to my post.”

George arranged to meet him, and they were sitting
in a roomy smoking compartment as the big express
sped across wide gray levels and past vast stretches
of ripening grain, when the next allusion was made
to the matter.

“That’s true, but they seem to use some
discretion in exceptional cases. I hardly think
you’ll remain a corporal.”

Flett’s eyes twinkled.

“I did get something that sounded like a hint.
I’ll confess that I felt like whooping after
it.”

Page 174

“You have deserved all you’ll get,”
George declared.

They spent the night at a junction, where Flett had
some business, and it was the next evening when the
local train ran into Sage Butte. The platform
was crowded and as George and Flett alighted, there
was a cheer and, somewhat to their astonishment, the
reeve of the town advanced to meet them.

“I’m here to welcome you in the name of
the citizens of the Butte,” he said. “We
have to request the favor of your company at supper
at the Queen’s.”

“It’s an honor,” George responded.
“I’m sensible of it; but, you see, I’m
in a hurry to get back to work and I wired for a team.
My harvest should have been started a week ago.”

“Don’t you worry ’bout that,”
said the reeve. “It wasn’t our wish
that you should suffer through discharging your duty,
and we made a few arrangements. Four binders
have been working steady in your oats, and if you
don’t like the way we have fixed things, you
can alter them to-morrow.”

Then West touched George’s arm.

“You’ll have to come. They’ve
got two other victims—­Hardie and Grant—­and
the supper’s ready.”

The reeve looked at him in stern rebuke.

“That isn’t the way to speak of this function,
Percy. If you feel like a victim, you can drop
right out.”

George was touched by the man’s intimation.
He expressed his satisfaction, and the whole assembly
escorted him to the hotel. There he and Grant
and Hardie were seated at the top of a long table near
the reeve, who made a short opening speech.

“Business first, and then the supper, boys,”
he said. “Corporal Flett can’t come;
his bosses wouldn’t approve of it; but I’ll
see it put in the Sentinel that he was asked, and
we won’t mind if that has some effect on them.
There’s another thing—­out of deference
to Mr. Hardie and the change in opinion he has ably
led—­you’ll only get tea and coffee
at this entertainment. Those who haven’t
signed his book, must hold out until it’s over.”

An excellent meal had been finished when he got up
again, with three illuminated strips of parchment
in his hand.

“I’ll be brief, but there’s something
to be said. Our guests have set us an example
which won’t be lost. They saw the danger
of letting things drift; one of them warned us plainly,
although to do so needed grit, and some of us rounded
on him, and if the others didn’t talk, it was
because that wasn’t their end of the job.
They knew their duty to the country and they did
it, though it cost them something. We owe it
to them that the police have smashed the rustler gang,
and that from now on no small homesteader can be bluffed
or tempted into doing what’s sure to bring him
into trouble, and no man with a big farm need fear
to let his cattle run. What’s more, instead
of a haunt of toughs and hobos, we’re going
to have a quiet and prosperous town. I’m
now proud that it’s my duty to hand our guests
the assurance of our grateful appreciation.
Corporal Flett’s will be sent on to him.”

Page 175

He handed them the parchments, and George felt inclined
to blush as he glanced at the decorated words of eulogy;
while a half-ironical twinkle crept into Grant’s
eyes. Then Hardie rose to reply, and faltered
once or twice with a sob of emotion in his voice,
for the testimonial had a deeper significance to him
than it had to the others. His audience, however,
encouraged him, and there was a roar of applause when
he sat down. Soon after that the gathering broke
up.

George went to the parlor, which served as writing-room,
and found Flora there. She smiled as she noticed
the end of the parchment sticking out of his pocket.

“I dare say you’re relieved that the ceremony’s
over,” she said.

“It was a little trying,” George confessed.
“I was badly afraid I’d have to make
a speech, but luckily we had Hardie, who was equal
to the task.”

“After all, you needn’t be ashamed of
the testimonial. I really think you deserved
it, and I suppose I must congratulate you on the fortunate
end of your dramatic adventures.”

George stood looking at her. He was somewhat
puzzled, for there was a hint of light mockery in
her voice.

“I’ll excuse you if you feel that it requires
an effort,” he said.

“Oh, you have had so much applause that mine
can hardly count.”

“You ought to know that it’s my friends’
good opinion I really value.”

Flora changed the subject.

“You will be driving out in the morning?”

“I’m starting as soon as Edgar has the
team ready. There’s a good moon and I
must get to work the first thing to-morrow.”

The girl’s face hardened.

“You seem desperately anxious about your crop.”

“I think that’s natural. There’s
a good deal to be done and I’ve lost some time.
I came in to write a note before I see what Edgar’s
doing.”

“Then I mustn’t disturb you, and it’s
time I went over to Mrs. Nelson’s—­she
expects me to stay the night. I was merely waiting
for a word with my father.” She stopped
George, who had meant to accompany her. “No,
you needn’t come—­it’s only a
few blocks away. Get your note written.”

Seeing that she did not desire his escort, George
let her go; but he frowned as he sat down and took
out some paper. Soon afterward Edgar came in,
and they drove off in a few more minutes.

“Did you see Miss Grant?” Edgar asked
when they were jolting down the rutted trail.

“I did,” George said shortly.

“You seem disturbed about it.”

“I was a little perplexed,” George owned.
“There was something that struck me as different
in her manner. It may have been imagination,
but I felt she wasn’t exactly pleased with me.
I can’t understand how I have offended her.”

“No,” said Edgar. “It would
have been remarkable if you had done so. I suppose
you told her you couldn’t rest until you got
to work at the harvest?”

Page 176

“I believe I said something of the kind.
What has that to do with it?”

“It isn’t very obvious. Perhaps
she felt tired or moody; it has been a blazing hot
day. There’s every sign of its being the
same to-morrow. I suppose you’ll make a
start after breakfast?”

“I’ll make a start as soon as it’s
daylight,” George told him.

He kept his word, and for the next few weeks toiled
with determined energy among the tall white oats and
the coppery ears of wheat. It was fiercely hot,
but from sunrise until the light failed, the plodding
teams and clinking binders moved round the lessening
squares of grain, and ranks of splendid sheaves lengthened
fast behind them. The nights were getting sharp,
the dawns were cold and clear, and George rose each
morning, aching in every limb, but with a keen sense
of satisfaction. Each day’s work added
to the store of money he would shortly hand to Sylvia.
He saw little of Flora, but when they met by chance,
as happened once or twice, he was still conscious
of something subtly unfamiliar in her manner.
He felt they were no longer on the old confidential
footing; a stronger barrier of reserve had risen between
them.

Before the last sheaves were stacked, the days were
growing cool. The fresh western breezes had
died away, and a faint ethereal haze and a deep stillness
had fallen upon the prairie. It was rudely broken
when the thrashers arrived and from early morning
the clatter of the engine filled the air with sound.
Loaded wagons crashed through the stubble, the voices
of dusty men mingled with the rustle of the sheaves,
and a long trail of sooty smoke stained the soft blue
of the sky.

This work was finished in turn, and day by day the
wagons, loaded high with bags of grain, rolled slowly
across the broad white levels toward the elevators.
Many a tense effort was needed to get them to their
destination, for the trails were dry and loose; but
markets were strong, and George had decided to haul
in all the big crop. Sometimes, though the nights
were frosty, he slept beside his jaded team in the
shelter of a bluff; sometimes he spent a day he grudged
laying straw on a road; rest for more than three or
four hours was unknown to him, and meals were snatched
at irregular intervals when matters of more importance
were less pressing. For all that, he was uniformly
cheerful; the work brought him the greatest pleasure
he had known, and he had grown fond of the wide, open
land, in which he had once looked forward to dwelling
with misgivings. The freedom of its vast spaces,
its clear air and its bright sunshine, appealed to
him, and he began to realize that he would be sorry
to leave it, which he must shortly do. Sylvia,
it was a pity, could not live in western Canada.

Page 177

At length, on a frosty evening, he saw the last load
vanish into the dusty elevator, and a curious feeling
of regret crept over him. It was very doubtful
if he would haul in another harvest, and he wondered
whether the time would now and then hang heavily on
his hands in England. There was a roar of machinery
above him in the tail building that cut sharply against
the sky; below, long rows of wagons stood waiting
their turn, and the voices of the teamsters, bantering
one another, struck cheerfully on his ears.
Side-track and little station were bathed in dazzling
electric glare, two locomotives were pushing in wheat
cars, and lights had begun to glimmer in the wooden
houses of the Butte, though all round there was the
vast sweep of prairie.

There was a touch of rawness in the picture, a hint
of incompleteness, with a promise of much to come.
Sage Butte was, perhaps, a trifle barbarous; but
its crude frame buildings would some day give place
to more imposing piles of concrete and steel.
Its inhabitants were passing through a transition
stage, showing signs at times of the primitive strain,
but, as a rule, reaching out eagerly toward what was
new and better. They would make swift progress,
and even now he liked the strenuous, optimistic, and
somewhat rugged life they led; he reflected that he
would find things different in sheltered England.

After giving Grierson a few instructions, George turned
away. His work was done; instead of driving
home through the sharp cold of the night, he was to
spend it comfortably at the hotel.

A week later, he and West drove over to the Grant
homestead and found only its owner in the general-room.
Grant listened with a rather curious expression when
George told him that he was starting for England the
following day; and then they quietly talked over the
arrangements that had been made for carrying on the
farm until Edgar’s return, for George’s
future movements were uncertain. Edgar, however,
was sensible of a constraint in the farmer’s
manner, which was presently felt by George, and the
conversation was languishing when Flora came in.
Shortly afterward George said that they must go and
Flora strolled toward the fence with him while the
team was being harnessed.

“So you are leaving us to-morrow and may not
come back?” she said, in an indifferent tone.

“I can’t tell what I shall do until I
get to England.”

Flora glanced at him with a composure that cost her
an effort. She supposed his decision would turn
upon Mrs. Marston’s attitude, but she knew Sylvia
well, and had a suspicion that there was a disappointment
in store for Lansing. Edgar had explained that
he was not rich, and he was not the kind of man Sylvia
was likely to regard with favor.

“Well,” she said lightly, “when
I came in, you really didn’t look as cheerful
as one might have expected. Are you sorry you
are going away?”

“It’s a good deal harder than I thought.
The prairie seems to have got hold of me; I have
good friends here.”

Page 178

“Haven’t you plenty in England?”

“Acquaintances; only a few friends. I
can’t help regretting those I must leave behind.
In fact”—­he spoke impulsively, expressing
a thought that had haunted him—­“it
would be a relief if I knew I should come back again.”

“After all, this is a hard country and we’re
a rather primitive people.”

“You’re reliable! Staunch friends,
determined enemies; and even among the latter I found
a kind of sporting feeling which made it a little
easier for one to forget one’s injuries.”
He glanced at the prairie which stretched away, white
and silent, in the clear evening light. “It’s
irrational in a way, but I’d be glad to feel
I was going to work as usual to-morrow.”

“I suppose you could do so, if you really wanted
to,” Flora suggested.

George turned and looked fixedly at her, while a mad
idea crept into his mind. She was very alluring;
he thought he knew her nature, which was altogether
wholesome, and it flashed upon him that many of the
excellent qualities she possessed were lacking in Sylvia.
Then he loyally drove out the temptation, wondering
that it had assailed him, though he was still clearly
conscious of his companion’s attractiveness.

“No,” he said in a somewhat strained voice;
“I hardly think that’s possible.
I must go back.”

Flora smiled, though it was difficult. She half
believed she could shake the man’s devotion
to her rival, but she was too proud to try. If
he came to her, he must come willingly, and not because
she had exerted her utmost power to draw him.

“Well,” she responded, “one could
consider the reluctant way you spoke the last few
words as flattering. I suppose it’s a compliment
to Canada?”

He failed to understand the light touch of mocking
amusement in her tone; it had not dawned on him that
this was her defense.

“It’s a compliment to the Canadians, though
my appreciation can’t be worth very much.
But I don’t feel in a mood to joke. In
fact, there’s a feeling of depression abroad
to-night; even your father seems affected. I’d
expected a pleasant talk with him, but we were very
dull.”

“What made you think he was less cheerful than
usual?” Flora cast a quick and rather startled
glance at him.

“I don’t know, but something seemed wrong.
Edgar’s the only one who looks undisturbed,
and if he talks much going home, he’ll get on
my nerves.”

“It’s hardly fair to blame him for a depression
that’s your fault,” said Flora.
“You deserve to feel it, since you will go away.”

Then Edgar came up with the wagon and George took
Flora’s hands.

“I shall think of you often,” he told
her. “It will always be with pleasure.
Now and then you might, perhaps, spare a thought for
me.”

“I think I can promise that,” Flora replied
quietly.

Then he shook hands with Grant and got into the wagon.
Edgar cracked the whip and the team plunged forward.
With a violent jolting and a rattle of wheels they
left the farm behind and drove out on to the prairie.
Flora stood watching them for a while; and then walked
back to the house in the gathering dusk with her face
set hard and a pain at her heart.

Page 179

Grant was sitting on the stoop, filling his pipe,
but when she joined him he paused in his occupation
and pointed toward the plain. The wagon was
scarcely discernible, but a rhythmic beat of hoofs
still came back through the stillness.

“I like that man, but he’s a blamed fool,”
he remarked.

Strong bitterness was mingled with the regret in his
voice, and Flora started. She was glad that
the light was too dim for him to see her clearly.

“I wonder what makes you say that?”

“For one thing, he might have done well here.”
Flora suspected that her father was not expressing
all he had meant. “He’s the kind
of man we want; and now he’s going back to fool
his life away, slouching round playing games and talking
to idle people, in the old country. Guess some
girl over there has got a hold on him.”
Then his indignation flamed out unchecked.
“I never could stand those Percy women, anyway;
saw a bunch of them, all dress and airs, when I was
last in Winnipeg. One was standing outside a
ticket-office at Portage, studying the people through
an eyeglass on an ivory stick, as if they were some
strange savages, and making remarks about them to her
friends, though I guess there isn’t a young
woman in the city with nerve enough to wear the clothes
she had on. It makes a sensible man mighty tired
to hear those creatures talk.”

Flora laughed, rather drearily, though she guessed
with some uneasiness the cause of her father’s
outbreak. It appeared injudicious to offer him
any encouragement.

“After all, one must be fair,” she said.
“I met some very nice people in the old country.”

He turned to her abruptly.

“Do you know who has taken Lansing back?”
he asked.

“I believe, from something West said, it is
Mrs. Marston.”

“That trash!” Grant’s sharp cry
expressed incredulity. “The man can’t
have any sense! He’s going to be sorry
all the time if he gets her.”

Then he knocked out his pipe, as if he were too indignant
to smoke, and went into the house.

CHAPTER XXXII

A REVELATION

It was a winter evening and Sylvia was standing near
the hearth in Mrs. Kettering’s hall, where the
lamps were burning, though a little pale daylight
still filtered through the drizzle outside. Sylvia
was fond of warmth and brightness, but she was alone
except for Ethel West, who sat writing at a table
in a recess, although her hostess had other guests,
including a few men who were out shooting. After
a while Ethel looked up.

“Have you or Herbert heard anything from George
during the last few weeks?” she asked.

Sylvia turned languidly. Her thoughts had been
fixed on Captain Bland, whom she was expecting every
moment. Indeed, she was anxious to get rid of
Ethel before he came in.

“No,” she said with indifference.
“I think his last letter came a month ago.
It was optimistic.”

Page 180

“They seem to have had a good harvest from what
Edgar wrote; he hinted that he might make a trip across.”

“It’s rather an expensive journey.”

“That wouldn’t trouble Edgar, and there’s
a reason for the visit. He has made up his mind
to start farming and wants to talk over his plans.
In fact, he thinks of getting married.”

Sylvia showed some interest.

“To whom? Why didn’t you tell me
earlier?”

“I only arrived this morning, and I wrote some
time ago, asking if you could meet Stephen and me.
You were with the Graysons then, but you didn’t
answer.”

“I forgot; I don’t always answer letters.
But who is the girl? Not Miss Grant?”

“Helen Taunton. Do you know her?”

Sylvia laughed.

“The storekeeper’s daughter! She’s
passably good-looking and her father’s not badly
off, but that’s about all one could say for her.”

“Do you know anything against the girl?”

“Oh, no!” said Sylvia languidly.
“She’s quite respectable—­in
fact, they’re rather a straight-laced people;
and she doesn’t talk badly. For all that,
I think you’ll get a shock if Edgar brings her
home.”

“That is not George’s opinion. We
wrote to him.”

Sylvia laughed.

“He would believe in anybody who looked innocent
and pretty.”

Ethel’s expression hardened; Sylvia had not
been considerate.

“I don’t think that’s true.
He’s generous, and though he has made mistakes,
it was only because his confidence was misled with
a highly finished skill. One wouldn’t
look for the same ability in a girl brought up in
a primitive western town.”

“After all,” said Sylvia tranquilly, “she
is a girl, and no doubt Edgar is worth powder and
shot from her point of view.”

“It doesn’t seem to be a commercial one,”
Ethel retorted. “Stephen had a very straightforward
letter from this storekeeper. But I’m inclined
to think I had better go on with my writing.”

Sylvia moved away. She had no reason for being
gracious to Ethel, and she took some pleasure in irritating
her.

In a few minutes Bland came in. The hall was
large, and Ethel was hidden from him in the recess.
He strode toward Sylvia eagerly, but she checked
him with a gesture.

“You have come back early,” she said.
“Wasn’t the sport good? What has
become of Kettering and the others?”

The man looked a little surprised. This was
hardly the greeting he had expected, after having
been promised a quiet half-hour with Sylvia; but,
looking round, he saw the skirt of Ethel’s dress
and understood. Had it been George she wished
to warn, she would have used different means; but
Bland, she was thankful, was not hypercritical.

“The sport was poor,” he told her.
“The pheasants aren’t very strong yet,
and it was hard to drive them out of the covers.
As I’d only a light water-proof, I got rather
wet outside the last wood and I left the others.
Kettering wanted to see the keeper about to-morrow’s
beat, but I didn’t wait.”

Page 181

“Since you have been in the rain all day, you
had better have some tea,” said Sylvia.
“They’ll bring it here, if you ring.”

He followed her to a small table across the hall,
and after a tray had been set before them they sat
talking in low voices. Presently Bland laid
his hand on Sylvia’s arm.

“You know why I came down,” he said.
“I must go back to-morrow and I want the announcement
made before I leave.”

Sylvia blushed and lowered her eyes.

“Oh, well,” she conceded, “you have
really been very patient, and perhaps it would be
hardly fair to make you wait any longer.”

Bland took her hand and held it fast.

“You are worth waiting for! But there
were times when it was very hard not to rebel.
I’d have done so, only I was afraid.”

“You did rebel.”

“Not to much purpose. Though no one would
suspect it from your looks, you’re a very determined
person, Sylvia. Now I don’t know how to
express my feelings; I want to do something dramatic,
even if it’s absurd, and I can’t even
speak aloud. Couldn’t you have got rid
of Miss West by some means?”

“How could I tell what you wished to say?”
Sylvia asked with a shy smile. “Besides,
Ethel wouldn’t go. She stuck there in the
most determined fashion!”

“Then we’ll have to disregard her.
It must be early next year, Sylvia. I’ll
see Lansing to-morrow.”

He continued in a quietly exultant strain, and Sylvia
felt relieved that her fate was decided. She
had some time ago led him to believe she would marry
him; but she had, with vague misgivings and prompted
by half-understood reasons, put off a definite engagement.
Now she had given her pledge, and though she thought
of George with faint regret, she was on the whole
conscious of satisfaction. Bland, she believed,
had a good deal to offer her which she could not have
enjoyed with his rival.

Presently a servant brought Ethel something on a salver,
and a few moments later she approached the other two
with a telegram in her hand.

“I thought I had better tell you, Sylvia,”
she explained. “Stephen has just got a
letter from Edgar, written a day or two before he sailed.
He should arrive on Saturday, and George is with him.”

Sylvia had not expected this and she was off her guard.
She started, and sat looking at Ethel incredulously,
with something like consternation.

“It’s quite true,” said Ethel bluntly.
“He’ll be here in three more days.”

Then Sylvia recovered her composure.

“In that case, I’ll have to let Muriel
know at once; he’ll go straight there, and she’s
staying with Lucy. Perhaps I had better telegraph.”

She rose and left them; and Bland sought Mrs. Kettering
and acquainted her of his engagement, and begged her
to make it known, which she promised to do.
He failed to find Sylvia until she was coming down
to dinner, when she beckoned him.

Page 182

“Have you told Susan yet?” she asked.

“Yes,” Bland beamed; “I told her
at once. I should have liked to go about proclaiming
the delightful news!”

Sylvia looked disturbed; Bland could almost have fancied
she was angry. As a matter of fact, troubled
thoughts were flying through her mind. It was
obvious that she would shortly be called upon to face
a crisis.

“After all,” she said, with an air of
resignation which struck him as out of place, “I
suppose you had to do so; but you lost no time.”

“Not a moment!” he assured her.
“I felt I couldn’t neglect anything that
brought you nearer to me.”

Then they went on, and meeting the other guests in
the hall, Sylvia acknowledged the shower of congratulations
with a smiling face. She escaped after dinner,
however, without a sign to Bland, and did not reappear.
During the evening, he found Ethel West sitting alone
in a quiet nook.

“Mrs. Marston seemed a little disturbed at the
news you gave her,” he remarked.

“So I thought,” said Ethel.

“I suppose the George you mentioned is her trustee,
who went to Canada and took your brother? You
once told me something about him.”

“Yes,” said Ethel. “You seem
to have the gift of arriving at correct conclusions.”

“He’s an elderly man—­a business
man of his cousin’s stamp—­I presume?”

Ethel laughed.

“Oh, no; they’re of very different type.
I should imagine that he’s younger than you
are. He was at Herbert’s one afternoon
when you called.”

“Ah!” said Bland. “I shall,
no doubt, get to know him when next I come down.”

Then he talked about other matters until he left her,
and after a while he found Kettering alone.

“Did you ever meet George Lansing?” he
asked.

“Oh, yes,” said his host. “I
know his cousin better.”

“He has been out in Canada, hasn’t he?”

“Yes; went out to look after Mrs. Marston’s
property. I understand he has been more or less
successful.”

“When did he leave England?”

Kettering told him, and Bland considered.

“So Lansing has been out, and no doubt going
to a good deal of trouble, for two years,” he
said. “That’s something beyond an
ordinary executor’s duty. What made him
undertake it?”

Kettering smiled.

“It’s an open secret—­you’re
bound to hear it—­that he had an admiration
for Sylvia. Still, there’s no ground for
jealousy. Lansing hadn’t a chance from
the beginning.”

Bland concealed his feelings.

“How is that? He must be an unusually
good fellow if he stayed out there to look after things
so long.”

“For one reason, he’s not Sylvia’s
kind. It was quite out of the question that
she should ever have married him.”

Page 183

Feeling that he had, perhaps, said too much, Kettering
began to talk of the next day’s sport; and soon
afterward Bland left him and went out on the terrace
to smoke and ponder. Putting what he had learned
together, he thought he understood the situation,
and it was not a pleasant one, though he was not very
indignant with Sylvia. It looked as if she made
an unfair use of Lansing’s regard for her, unless,
in spite of Kettering’s opinion, she had until
lately been undecided how to choose between them.
Nevertheless, Bland could not feel that he had now
been rudely undeceived, for he had always recognized
some of Sylvia’s failings. He did not
expect perfection; and he could be generous, when
he had won.

He asked Sylvia no injudicious questions when they
met the next morning, and during the day he called
on Herbert Lansing, who was back in his office.
The latter heard him explain his errand with somewhat
mixed feelings, for there were certain rather troublesome
facts that must be mentioned.

“Well,” he said, “I have, of course,
no objections to make; but, as one of her trustees,
it’s my duty to look after Sylvia’s interests.
As you know, she is not rich.”

“I suppose these points must he talked over,”
Bland said, with indifference.

“It’s usual, and in the present case,
necessary. What provision are you able to make?”

Bland looked a little uncomfortable. “As
a matter of fact, I’d find it difficult to make
any provision. I get along fairly well, as it
is, but I’ve only about four hundred a year
besides my pay.”

“How far does your pay go?” Herbert asked
dryly.

“It covers my mess bills and a few expenses
of that nature.”

Herbert leaned back in his chair with a smile.

“Hasn’t it struck you that you should
have chosen a wife with money?”

“Now,” said Bland rather sternly, “I
don’t want to lie open to any misconception,
but I understood that Mrs. Marston had some means.
I’m quite prepared to hear they’re small.”

“That’s fortunate, because it may save
you a shock. Sylvia owns a farm in Canada, which
did not repay the cost of working it last year.
During the present one there has been an improvement,
and we expect a small surplus on the two years’
operations. The place has been valued at—­but
perhaps I had better give you a few figures, showing
you how matters stand.”

Opening a drawer, he handed a paper to Bland, who
studied it with a sense of dismay.

“I’ll confess that this is an unpleasant
surprise,” he said at length; and then, while
Herbert waited, he pulled himself together with a
laugh. “After that admission, I must add
that the mistake is the result of my having a sanguine
imagination; Sylvia scarcely mentioned her Canadian
property. Now, however, there’s only one
thing to be done—­to face the situation
as cheerfully as possible.”

“It can’t be an altogether attractive
one.” Herbert admired his courage and the
attitude he had adopted.

Page 184

“I shall certainly have to economize,”
Bland admitted; “and that is a thing I’m
not accustomed to; but I may get some appointment,
and by and by a small share in some family property
will revert to me. Though I must go straight
back to my garrison duties now, I’ll come down
for an hour or two and explain things to Sylvia, as
soon as I can.” He paused and broke into
a faint smile. “I dare say the surprise
will be mutual; she may have believed my means to
be larger than they are.”

“I should consider it very possible,”
replied Herbert dryly. “As I must see
Sylvia, I’ll give her an idea how matters stand
and clear the ground for you.”

Bland said that he would be glad of this; and after
some further conversation he took his leave and walked
to the station, disturbed in mind, but conscious of
a little ironical amusement. There was no doubt
that Sylvia had cleverly deluded him, but he admitted
that he had done much the same thing to her.
Had he realized the true state of her affairs at
the beginning he would have withdrawn; but he had no
thought of doing so now. It was obvious that
Sylvia’s principles were not very high, and
he regretted it, although he could not claim much superiority
in this respect. He was tolerant and, after all,
she had a charm that atoned for many failings.

It was three or four days later when he arrived at
Mrs. Kettering’s house one evening and found
Sylvia awaiting him in a room reserved for her hostess’s
use. She was very becomingly dressed and looked,
he thought, even more attractive than usual.
She submitted to his caress with an air of resignation,
but he augured a good deal from the fact that she
did not repulse him. As it happened, Sylvia had
carefully thought over the situation.

“Sit down,” she said; “I want to
talk with you.”

“I think I’ll stand. It’s
more difficult to feel penitent in a comfortable position.
It looks as if you had seen Herbert Lansing.”

“I have.” Sylvia’s tone was
harsh. “What have you to say for yourself?”

“Not a great deal, which is fortunate, because
I haven’t much time to say it in,” Bland
told her with a smile. “To begin with,
I’ll state the unflattering truth—­it
strikes me that, in one way, we’re each as bad
as the other. I suppose it’s one of my
privileges to mention such facts to you, though I’d
never think of admitting them to anybody else.”

“Well,” said Bland, “I can only
make one defense, but I think you ought to realize
how strong it is. We were thrown into each other’s
society, and it isn’t in the least surprising
that I lost my head and was carried away. My
power of reasoning went when I fell in love with you.”

Page 185

“Then it wasn’t to much purpose.
Don’t you see what you want to bring me to?
Can’t you realize what I should have to give
up? How could we ever manage on the little we
have?”

The man frowned. He was sorry for her and somewhat
ashamed, but she jarred on him in her present mood.

“I believe people who were sufficiently fond
of each other have often got along pretty satisfactorily
on less, even in the Service. It’s a matter
of keen regret to me that you will have to make a sacrifice,
but things are not quite so bad as they look, and
there’s reason for believing they may get better.
You will have as pleasant society as you enjoy now;
my friends will stand by my wife.” A look
of pride crept into his face. “I dare
say they have their failings, but they’ll only
expect charm from you, and you can give it to them.
They won’t value you by the display you make
or your possessions. We’re free from that
taint.”

“But have you considered what you must give
up?”

Bland had hardly expected this, but he smiled.

“Oh, yes. I spent an evening over it and
I was a little surprised to find how many things there
were I could readily do without. In fact, it
was a most instructive evening. The next day
I wrote a bundle of letters, resigning from clubs
I rarely went to, and canceling orders for odds and
ends I hadn’t the least real use for. But
I’ll confess that I’ve derived a good
deal more pleasure from thinking of how much I shall
get.”

Sylvia was touched, but she did not mean to yield
too readily.

“It would be dreadfully imprudent.”

“Just so; one has often to take a risk.
It’s rather exciting to fling prudence overboard.
I want to fix my whole attention on the fact that
we love each other!” Bland glanced at his watch.
“Now it strikes me that we have been sufficiently
practical, and as I must start back to-night, I haven’t
much time left. Don’t you think it would
be a pity to waste it?”

He drew her down beside him on a lounge and Sylvia
surrendered. After all, the man had made a good
defense and, as far as her nature permitted, she had
grown fond of him.

CHAPTER XXXIII

GEORGE MAKES UP HIS MIND

Dusk was closing in when George and Edgar alighted
at a little English station. Casting an eager
glance about, George was disappointed to see nobody
from his cousin’s house waiting to meet him.
In another moment, however, he was warmly greeted
by Ethel West.

“A very hearty welcome, George,” she said.
“You’re looking very fit, but thinner
than you were when you left us. Stephen’s
waiting outside. He told Muriel we would drive
you over; Herbert’s away somewhere.”

“How’s everybody?” George inquired.

“Sylvia looked as charming as ever when I last
saw her a few days ago,” Ethel answered with
a smile, which George was too eager to notice was
somewhat forced. “The rest of us, are much
as usual. But come along; we’ll send over
afterward for your heavy things.”

Page 186

They turned toward the outlet, and found Stephen having
some trouble with a horse that was startled by the
roar of steam. Edgar got up in front of the
high trap, George helped Ethel to the seat behind,
and they set off the next moment, flying down the
wet road amid a cheerful hammer of hoofs and a rattle
of wheels. For the first few minutes George
said little as he looked about. On one side great
oaks and ashes raised their naked boughs in sharp
tracery against the pale saffron glow in the western
sky. Ahead, across a deep valley, which was
streaked with trains of mist, wide moors and hills
rolled away, gray and darkly blue. Down the
long slope to the hollow ran small fields with great
trees breaking the lines of hedgerows; and the brawling
of a river swollen by recent rain came sharply up to
him.

It was all good to look upon, a beautiful, well-cared-for
land, and he felt a thrill of pride and satisfaction.
This was home, and he had come back to it with his
work done. A roseate future stretched away before
him, its peaceful duties brightened by love, and the
contrast between it and the stress and struggle of
the past two years added to its charm. Still,
to his astonishment, he thought of the sterner and
more strenuous life he had led on the western plains
with a faint, half-tender regret.

By and by Edgar’s laugh rang out.

“The change in my brother is remarkable,”
Ethel declared. “It was a very happy thought
that made us let him go with you.”

“I’m not responsible,” George rejoined.
“You have the country to thank. In some
way, it’s a hard land; but it’s a good
one.”

“Perhaps something is due to Miss Taunton’s
influence.”

Edgar leaned over the back of the seat.

“That,” he said, “is a subject of
which I’ve a monopoly; and I’ve volumes
to say upon it as soon as there’s a chance of
doing it justice. George, I hear that Singleton,
who told us about the wheat, is home on a visit.
Stephen has asked him over; you must meet him.”

George said he would be glad to do so, and turned
to Ethel when Edgar resumed his conversation with
his brother.

“I wired Herbert to have everything ready at
my place, though I shall spend the night at Brantholme.”

“Oh, no!” said Ethel. “Stephen
wanted me to insist on your coming with us now, but
I know you will want to see Muriel and have a talk
with her. However, we’ll expect you to
come and take up your quarters with us to-morrow.”

George looked at her in some surprise.

“I’d be delighted, but Herbert will expect
me to stay with him, and, of course—­”

“Sylvia hadn’t arrived this afternoon;
she was at Mrs. Kettering’s,” Ethel told
him. “But remember that you must stay with
us until you make your arrangements. We should
find it hard to forgive you if you went to anybody
else.”

Page 187

“I wouldn’t think of it, only that Herbert’s
the obvious person to entertain me,” George
replied, though he was a little puzzled by the insistence,
and Ethel abruptly began to talk of something else.

Darkness came, but there were gleams of cheerful light
from roadside cottages, and George found the fresh
moist air and the shadowy woods they skirted pleasantly
familiar. This was the quiet English countryside
he loved, and a sense of deep and tranquil content
possessed him. He failed to notice that Ethel
cleverly avoided answering some of his questions and
talked rather more than usual about matters of small
importance. At length they reached the Brantholme
gates, and Stephen looked down as George alighted.

“We’ll expect you over shortly; I’ll
send for your baggage,” he said as he drove
off.

George, to his keen disappointment, found only Mrs.
Lansing waiting for him in the hall, though she received
him very cordially,

“Herbert had to go up to London; he didn’t
get your wire in time to put off the journey,”
she explained. “I’m sorry he can’t
be back for a few days.”

“It doesn’t matter; he has to attend to
his business,” George rejoined. “But
where’s Sylvia?”

“She hasn’t come back from Susan’s,”
said Mrs. Lansing, quickly changing the subject and
explaining why Herbert had re-let the Lodge.
After that, she asked George questions until she sent
him off to prepare for dinner.

George was perplexed as well as disappointed.
Neither Ethel nor Muriel seemed inclined to speak
about Sylvia—­it looked as if they had some
reason for avoiding any reference to her; but he assured
himself that this was imagination, and during dinner
he confined his inquiries to other friends.
When it was over and Muriel led him into the drawing-room,
his uneasiness grew more keen.

“Herbert thought you would like to know as soon
as possible how things were going,” Muriel said,
as she took a big envelope from a drawer and gave
it to him.

“He told me this was a rough statement of your
business affairs.”

“Thanks,” said George, thrusting it carelessly
into his pocket. “I must study it sometime.
But I’ve been looking forward all day to meeting
Sylvia. Wouldn’t Susan let her come?”

Mrs. Lansing hesitated, and then, leaning forward,
laid her hand on his arm.

“I’ve kept it back a little, George; but
you must be told. I’m afraid it will be
a shock—–­Sylvia is to marry Captain
Bland in the next few weeks.”

George rose and turned rather gray in the face, as
he leaned on the back of a chair.

“I suppose,” he said hoarsely, “there’s
no doubt of this?”

“It’s all arranged.” Mrs. Lansing
made a compassionate gesture. “I can’t
tell you how sorry I am, or how hateful it was to have
to give you such news.”

“I can understand why Sylvia preferred to leave
it to you,” he said slowly. “How
long has this matter been going on?”

Page 188

Mrs. Lansing’s eyes sparkled with anger.

“I believe it began soon after you left.
I don’t know whether Sylvia expects me to make
excuses for her, but I won’t do anything of the
kind; there are none that could be made. She
has behaved shamefully!”

“One must be just,” George said with an
effort. “After all, she promised me nothing.”

“Perhaps not in so many words. But she
knew what you expected, and I have no doubt she led
you to believe—­”

George raised his hand.

“I think there’s nothing to be said—­the
thing must be faced somehow. I feel rather badly
hit; you won’t mind if I go out and walk about
a little?”

Mrs. Lansing was glad to let him go; the sight of
his hard-set face hurt her. In another minute
he was walking up and down the terrace, but he stopped
presently and leaned on the low wall. Hitherto
he had believed in Sylvia with an unshaken faith,
but now a flood of suspicion poured in on him; above
all, there was the telling fact that as soon as he
had gone, she had begun to lead on his rival.
The shock he had suffered had brought George illumination.
Sylvia could never have had an atom of affection
for him; she had merely made his loyalty serve her
turn. She had done so even before she married
Dick Marston; though he had somehow retained his confidence
in her then. He had been a fool from the beginning!

The intense bitterness of which he was conscious was
wholly new to him, but it was comprehensible.
Just in all his dealings, he expected honesty from
others, and, though generous in many ways, he had not
Bland’s tolerant nature; he looked for more than
the latter and had less charity. There was a
vein of hardness in the man who had loved Sylvia largely
because he believed in her. Trickery and falseness
were abhorrent to him, and now the woman he had worshiped
stood revealed in her deterrent reality.

After a while he pulled himself together, and, going
back to the house, entered Herbert’s library
where, less because of his interest in the matter
than as a relief from painful thoughts, he opened the
envelope given him and took out the statement.
For a few moments the figures puzzled him, and then
he broke into a bitter laugh. The money that
he had entrusted to his cousin’s care had melted
away.

During the next two or three minutes he leaned back,
motionless, in his chair; then he took up a pencil
and lighted a cigar. Since he was ruined, he
might as well ascertain how it had happened, and two
facts became obvious from his study of the document:
Herbert had sold sound securities, and had mortgaged
land; and then placed the proceeds in rubber shares.
This was perhaps permissible, but it did not explain
what had induced an astute business man to hold the
shares until they had fallen to their remarkably low
value. There was a mystery here, and George
in his present mood was keenly suspicious. He
had no doubt that Herbert had left the statement because

Page 189

it would save him the unpleasantness of giving a personal
explanation; moreover, George believed that he had
left home with that purpose. Then he made a few
rough calculations, which seemed to prove that enough
remained to buy and stock a farm in western Canada.
This was something, though it did not strike him
as a matter of much consequence, and he listlessly
smoked out his cigar. Then he rose and rejoined
Mrs. Lansing.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll go over
to Wests’ to-morrow,” he said. “They
pressed me to spend some time with them, and there
are arrangements to be made on which they want my
opinion. Edgar is taking up land in Canada.”

Mrs. Lansing looked troubled.

“Was there anything disturbing in the paper
Herbert gave me for you? He doesn’t tell
me much about his business, but I gathered that he
was vexed about some shares he bought on your account.
I should be sorry if they have gone down.”

“You would hardly understand; the thing’s
a little complicated,” George said with reassuring
gentleness. “I’m afraid I have lost
some money; but, after all, it isn’t my worst
misfortune. I’ll have a talk with Herbert
as soon as he comes home.”

He left Brantholme the next morning and was received
by Ethel when he arrived at Wests’.

“We have been expecting you,” she said
cordially.

“Then you know?”

“Yes. I’m very sorry; but I suppose
it will hardly bear talking about. Stephen is
waiting for you; he’s taking a day off and Edgar’s
friend, Singleton, arrives to-night.”

Singleton duly made his appearance, but he was not
present when George and Stephen West sat down for
a talk after dinner in the latter’s smoking-room.
Presently George took out the statement and handed
it to his host.

“I want advice badly and I can’t go to
an outsider for it,” he said. “I
feel quite safe in confiding in you.”

West studied the document for a while before he looked
up.

“The main point to be decided is—­whether
you should sell these shares at once for what they
will bring, or wait a little? With your permission,
we’ll ask Singleton; he knows more about the
matter than anybody else.”

Singleton came in and lighted a cigar, and then listened
carefully, with a curious little smile, while West
supplied a few explanations.

“Hold on to these shares, even if you have to
make a sacrifice to do so,” he advised.

“But they seem to be almost worthless,”
George objected.

“Perhaps I had better go into the matter fully,”
said Singleton. “I’ll do so on the
understanding that what I’m about to tell you
reaches nobody else.”

George looked at West, who nodded.

“Well,” explained Singleton, “I’ve
come over on a flying visit about this rubber business.
The original company—­the one in which you
hold shares—­was got up mainly with the
idea of profiting by the rather reckless general buying
of such stock. Its tropical possessions were
badly managed, though a little good rubber was shipped,
and when prices reached their highest point Mr. Lansing
sold out.”

Page 190

“If he had sold my shares at the same time,
there should have been a satisfactory margin?”

“Undoubtedly. Extensive selling, however,
shakes the confidence of speculators, and a man desirous
of unloading would accordingly prefer everybody else
to hold on.”

“I think I am beginning to understand now,”
George said grimly.

“Then,” Singleton went on, “a new
company was projected by the promoters of the first
one, and I was sent out to report on its prospects.
At the last moment Mr. Lansing withdrew, but his associates
sent me south again. The slump he had foreseen
came; nobody wanted rubber shares in any but firmly
established and prosperous companies. Lansing
had cleared out in time and left his colleagues to
face a crushing loss.”

“I don’t see how all this bears upon the
subject,” George interrupted.

“Wait. You may be thankful Lansing didn’t
sell your shares. I found that the company could
be placed upon a paying basis, and, what is more,
that the older one possessed resources its promoters
had never suspected. In fact, I discovered how
its output could be greatly increased at an insignificant
cost. I came home at once with a scheme which
has been adopted, and I’ve every reason to believe
that there will be marked rise in the shares before
long. Anyway, there’s no doubt that the
company will be able to place high-class rubber on
the market at a cost which will leave a very satisfactory
margin.”

George was conscious of strong relief. It looked
as if his loss would be small, and there was a chance
of his stock becoming valuable; but another thought
struck him.

“When was it that Herbert sold his shares?”

“At the beginning of last winter.”

“Shortly before we mentioned that you might
come home,” West interposed pointedly.

This confirmed George’s suspicions; he could
readily understand Herbert’s preferring that
he should stay away, but he remembered that it was
Sylvia’s letter which had decided him to remain
in Canada. In the statement left him, he had
been charged with half of certain loans Herbert had
made to her, and he wondered whether this pointed to
some collusion between them. He thought it by
no means improbable.

“I understand that Herbert knows nothing about
these new developments, and has no idea that the future
of the two undertakings is promising?” he said.

Singleton laughed.

“Not the slightest notion. If he suspected
it, there would be nothing to prevent his buying shares;
nothing will transpire until the shareholders’
meeting, which will not be held for some time.
Lansing retired and sold out, because he was convinced
that both companies were worthless.” He
paused and added dryly: “I can’t see
why we should enlighten him.”

“Nor can I,” responded George; and West
nodded.

“Then,” said Singleton, “when Lansing
learns the truth, it will be too late for him to profit
by the knowledge. I believe he has thrown away
the best chance he ever had.”

Page 191

Shortly afterward Edgar came in and they talked of
something else; but two days later Herbert returned
and George went over to Brantholme. He was shown
into the library where Herbert was sitting, and the
latter was on his guard when he saw his cousin’s
face. He greeted him affably, however, and made
a few inquiries about his farming.

George stood looking at him with a fixed expression.

“I think,” he said shortly, “we
had better talk business.”

“Oh, well,” replied Herbert. “I
suppose you have studied my statement. I needn’t
say that I regret the way matters have turned out;
but one can’t foresee every turn of the market,
or avoid a miscalculation now and then. It would
hurt me if I thought this thing had anything to do
with your going to Stephen’s.”

“We won’t discuss that. I gave you
authority to look after my affairs; I want it back.”

Herbert took a document from a drawer and laid it
on the table.

“Here it is. But won’t you let me
try to straighten matters out?”

“Can they be straightened out?”

“Well,” said Herbert with some embarrassment,
“I’m afraid there’s a serious loss,
but it would be wiser to face it and sell off the shares.”

“I can do what seems most desirable without
any further assistance.”

George leaned forward and, as he picked up the document,
a flush crept into his cousin’s face.

“I hardly expected you would take this line.
Do you think it’s right to blame me because
I couldn’t anticipate the fall in value?”

“It strikes me that the situation is one that
had better not be discussed between us,” George
rejoined, with marked coldness. “Besides,
my opinion won’t count for much in face of the
very satisfactory financial results you have secured.
I’m sorry for what has happened, on Muriel’s
account.”

He turned and went out; and met Ethel on reaching
West’s house.

“I must try to arrange for an interview with
Sylvia and Captain Bland,” he told her.
“There are matters that should be explained
to them.”

“I think so,” he answered with a forced
smile. “Anyway, I’ll try, and I’d
like you to be happy. But it wouldn’t be
flattering if I pretended that I wasn’t hurt.”

“Ah,” she exclaimed, “you were always
so generous!”

He stood silent a moment or two looking at her.

She had cunningly tricked him and killed his love;
but she was very attractive with her pretty, helpless
air. He knew this was false, but there was no
profit in bitterness; he would not cause her pain.

Page 192

“It’s more to the purpose that I’m
hard, which is fortunate in several ways. But
I came to talk about the farm; that is why I suggested
that Captain Bland should be present.”

“The farm?” Sylvia regarded him with
a trace of mockery. “That you should think
of it is so characteristic of you!”

George smiled.

“I can’t help my matter-of-fact nature,
and I’ve found it serviceable. Anyway,
the farm must be thought of.” He laid a
hand gently on her shoulder. “Sylvia,
I’m told that Bland isn’t rich. If
he loves you, take him fully into your confidence.”

She blushed, which he had scarcely expected.

“I have done so—­at least, I allowed
Herbert to explain—­there is nothing hidden.”
Then her tone changed to one of light raillery.
“You were always an extremist, George; you
can’t hit the happy medium. Once you believed
I was everything that was most admirable, and now—­”

“I think you have done right and wisely in letting
Bland know how things stand. It was only my
interest in your future that warranted what I said.”

“Well,” she replied, “we will go
up and talk to him; he’s waiting. You
can give your account to him.”

George followed her, but for a while he was conscious
of a certain restraint, which he fancied was shared
by Bland. It was difficult to talk about indifferent
subjects, and he took out some papers.

“I came to explain the state of Sylvia’s
Canadian affairs; she wished you to know,” he
said. “If you will give me a few minutes,
I’ll try to make things clear.”

Bland listened gravely, and then made a sign of satisfaction.

“It’s obvious that Sylvia placed her property
in most capable hands. We can only give you our
sincere thanks.”

“There’s a point to be considered,”
George resumed. “Have you decided what
to do with the property?”

“Sylvia and I have talked it over; we thought
of selling. I don’t see how we could carry
on the farm.”

“If you will let the matter stand over for a
few weeks, I might be a purchaser. The land’s
poor, but there’s a good deal of it, and I believe
that, with proper treatment, it could be made to pay.”

Sylvia looked astonished, Bland slightly embarrassed.

“We never contemplated your buying the place,”
he said.

“I’ve grown fond of it; I believe I understand
how it should be worked. There’s no reason
why either of you should object to my becoming a purchaser.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Bland agreed.
“Anyway, I can promise that we’ll do
nothing about the matter until we hear from you; I
don’t think there’s any likelihood of
our disputing about the price. You can fix that
at what it’s worth to you.”

George changed the subject; and when he went out,
Sylvia smiled at Bland.

“You needn’t have been so sensitive about
his buying the farm,” she said. “It
will have to be sold.”

Page 193

“I suppose so, but I wish we could have given
it to him.”

Sylvia touched his cheek caressingly.

“Don’t be foolish; it’s out of the
question. You will have to be economical enough
as it is, but you shan’t make any sacrifice that
isn’t strictly necessary.”

During the next few weeks George made some visits
among his friends, but he returned to the Wests shortly
before Edgar sailed for Canada. On the night
preceding his departure they were sitting together
when Edgar looked at him thoughtfully.

“George,” he remarked, “I wonder
if it has ever struck you that you’re a very
short-sighted person? I mean that you don’t
realize where your interest lies.”

“It isn’t easy to answer bluntly, and
if I threw out any delicate suggestions, they’d
probably be wasted. You saw a good deal of Flora
Grant, and if you had any sense you would have recognized
what kind of girl she is.”

“Miss Grant doesn’t need your praise.”

“I’m glad you admit it; appreciation’s
sometimes mutual. Now I can’t undertake
to say what Flora implied from your visits, but I’ve
no doubt about what her father expected.”

The blood crept into George’s face as he remembered
Grant’s manner during their last interview.

“I did nothing that could have led him to believe—­”

“Oh, no!” said Edgar. “You
behaved with the greatest prudence; perhaps frigid
insensibility would describe it better. Of course
this is a deplorable intrusion, but I feel I must
point out that it may not be too late yet.”

George did so after Edgar’s departure, though
the idea was not new to him. He had long been
sensible of Flora’s charm, and had now and then
felt in Canada that it would not be difficult to love
her. Since he had learned the truth about Sylvia,
Flora had occupied a prominent place in his mind.
By degrees a desire for her had grown stronger; he
had seen how admirable in many ways she was, how staunch
and fearless and upright. Still, he feared to
go back; she was proud and might scorn his tardy affection.
He grew disturbed and occasionally moody, and then
one day a cablegram was delivered to him.

“Believe you had better come back,” it
read, and was signed by Helen Taunton.

George understood what it was intended to convey,
and before night he had arranged to purchase Sylvia’s
farm.

Three days later he was crossing the Atlantic with
an eager and thankful heart.